16 colours, and 256 exabytes
of gay data, carefully collated and archived;
Everything, is of course, is a little too meta,
requiring, and inviting, so much foresight
that your skin begins to crackle and burn
when the pages turn too fast, and your eyes grow wide
at every mention of what happens
when I ride hard, and fast, and so politely
that you can't imagine that some of this stuff is about sex,
and repressed things, and living life
to the fullest, and most bullish, and truthfully speaking
I don't really how to hide all of it, any of it:
what's out is all of what's inside, proud and touted
for its insight into the inner world of the gay non-binary Kristang man at the pinnacle of
strife, and stepping up the game,
every winding staircase another tangent that leads
to the wrestling with the angel, the cracking and burnishing at odd angles
of abstracts, stories, rewritten, strangled
poems of heartbreak, and desperation, and visualisation
of the apocalypse (it usually happens at night):
climb up, and hoist the flag.
There's no one, and nowhere else.
It better be white, or brown, or unable to be found:
It better be something that shows, to everyone around,
who you are, seraph, or nephil
or something else.
No posts