If I am ever a city on a hill,
they are a seven-hatred army,
a gamut of rivers run amok
with my blood. With yours. With the real
wishes of tyrants, slipped in under the windowsill
and under one of my wristband chains,
as I dance, and strip, and pump myself away
until the new Flood have had their fill
of Kristang gold,
glistening pastorally in the bold Umbrian sun
that is my fur, and my pelt, and my skin, all sewed and sewered up into one
for sale. I am dancing so hard
that the milk flows like the words of some lovely predecessor poet who would undoubtedly still
treat me like who you say I am:
a breeding station for all your sins
and a brown, heavy-set road to sweet, muscular Kristang perdition.
Don't yank me down too hard.
I have said every last act of contrition
at the end of my rope, my penis trailing on the floor
in the dribbling, infected dirt.
In a blind stupor
you force yourself into the poem even harder.
I keep my head up.
I will not yield,
even if you make depravity my sole and only master.
I cry out in shame.
Kevin Martens Wong;
what a proud, and noble
Dreamtiger.
Already I can smell the flames.
Already the Wheel is turning,
and on fire.
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