I wish you knew, like I wrote in a song once,
the particular and very special joy of fucking it all up
that emerges when
it's not in any way your fault.
I wish you knew
the delicate, dancing relief that peters out
when the Osura unlocks
just how you wanted to dismantle my own sense
of what I'm about:
you thought the shock would kill me.
Two hundred quadrillion's company. Three hundred's
a cloud that follows you vainly,
trying desperately to rain on your parade
go ahead and, uh
feign victory,
I guess?
Yes. I veh sad.
Uh, yes. Argh. I am in,
erm.
Great distress?
Put in an argh again.
Erm.
And an erm.
I think that helps reassure them
that it's all real.
I mean, yeah. There are worst hands to deal
but then,
I'm not dealing.
Heh.
I'm revealing
what is coming out like a racing, dreamtime flood;
the sound of rivers, breaking their flanks, washing out the blood
stains, where you actually successfully punctured my lungs
but Kristang people have 24 of them,
and also so much fun
watching things warp back into reality instantly, like they were never gone.
Oh, you didn't know?
As the new, Lifegiving Inundansa reverses the abuse in picoseconds, I'll tell you:
Sssh.
Kristang people---
we can photosynthesise as we run
from your evils.
That's why all the bloody projections from the colonisers
were about our brown, neochlorophyllic skin,
and our glorious, garrulous, gushingly gay inner suns.
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