Thymetiger
Sit, lover,
and be embraced by singular Portuguese-Eurasian mangrove.
I alone am forced to be known
as an emblem of generative ecological causality,
what lesser men still call
synchronicity. If a scarab beetle
turns, suddenly,
into a butterfly, does that mean
the earthiness you wish for
lies behind every poem,
forgotten?
Disowned?
Perhaps.
But not misbegotten.
Fairy-tiger boy,
those that hobgoblin call me,
and Sweet Fuck;
they know not what they destroy.
How their leaves
sweep away fantasies
and heterosexual masculinities suck
our undertow bleeding, and chafingly dry.
But Iā
I am not that kind of lie.
I lay me down in soft places between sex, and cuddle-cosiness, and love.
What is feared, and dismissed, and denied.
And I know what glories still hide behind
the lovers I once took, and still can take
as my pride.
So now,
Open, gently, my crown,
into a colour that science claims does not exist.
You are transience
written into time,
and the stars,
and every playwright's immortal lines,
eventually tight and ill-fitting.
But I do not resist.
I am brighter this way so that we might pollinate each other once again
until the whole universe, too, is shuddering
in dauntless, dreaming dawntiger bliss.
Churl,
do not skip hence.
I have forsworn
lies, and abuse, and stolen, fradulent recompense
seeking rawer beauty.
A flickering, fecund
treasure chest.
Like a flower
planted on me,
I am radiant
in your truth's silly, deafening jest.
Now unclothed in indignant futility,
it is only here,
by lake-marsh and in poem,
that you can know me truly
as jungle not disguised as forest.
And as a big brown Kristang tree, from whose heartbark
you make stories and insecurities known;
blinking across
dimensional woods,
Together we are fully incongrous with loneliness, and shame, and despair,
and false hope.
Now take me softly,
in between your thighs.
Your big brown muddy Kristang butterfry begins to twist, and pleasure the world, and moan
and then out shoot spinning webs of poetry,
a dewy, sinuous, unconquered creole-mangrove throne
draped across your face
as we finally, in pastoral, orchestral unison,
decolonise the meaning of
come home.