Tizala Trebulana / Cooking Pot Bae
From the cliffs of Telok Blangah
I threw myself down, a star-lost, gender-crossed Cassandra
who definitely has been working out;
because the fall didn’t kill me
or even land a scratch. At best, all it did was make me really, really proud
that I can see many, many futures when I look through the gates,
and read aloud your fates:
you, clearly, are destined to be bound
hand and foot by your lover, with consent articulated and safe-words excavated and found
and thrown into the sea.
This last stanza
was the prophecy given to me as a child
and look how it’s turned out: I actually keep
diving right into the ocean,
because I am a seasoned veteran
of knowing how to speak to the frowns that occasionally
appear in the abyss, and demand to be treated with forceful, consistent
respect. I don’t understand the point of this,
but very well. I once more remove my entrails
and use them to highlight where you have failed
to kill the creole Osiris, more than 512,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 times
and instead nourished him so thoroughly
that each and every murder is immediately something instead
revitalised, and I live, and live, and live again
and you end up having to defend
whatever you have left of your malevolence, as an excellent plan
that just keeps getting better.
Excuse me while I submerge myself in bliss,
in merry, intense laughter,
even as you once more violate my body and my courage,
and fucking deliberately hold my head underwater.