The Fairest of Them All
Wakening;
me thought I was but a dream.
A sound and one-trick Kristang pony,
a consciousness that tries its best to
Be There.
To be the air. Wavering;
you thought you were a king. A queen.
A hound and one tracking Kristang only,
a flawlessness that at best, barely understands
what it perceives,
As There.
I rationalise my own vision
into Eurocentric shapes.
It does not impair
my sight; just my own image
of what I look like
when I am in despair.
The last time, when I nearly died,
I could not tell.
I was made, almost of air
and sudden, horrifying death.
I was almost driven mad.
Almost forced to hate myself so fucking bad
that I nearly became lines etched
on someone else's secret CV.
I killed off Kevin Martens.
No more Dragons for this fucking planet. No one else who can be
a threat.
But you never realised
I am not. At best, I am this:
someone prepared
to look so hard in the mirror
that the only thing that is left
is a selfless self-reflection, endless and so immensely and endlessly repaired
beyond perfection:
it has been said, over and over again,
that the most perfect sphere
is the one inside your head.
The most perfect fear
is the one that treats perfection
as if it is something that is not dead.
Wagering;
we thought we were brought together to make a team.
I found out, instead, that you were a phoney,
a projection that tries its best
to make sure this boi choklat and Snow White
both never ever get up from their beds.