Trailblazer Mix
Get in. It's thick
under the heavens that strain
with hope-laden creole muscle.
You getting a little muddy?
Give me a nice, warm, breathy
cuddle. It's getting heaty
as the global economy continues to be an absolute fucking muddle
but hey, it's okay. At least we can be subtle
about our other expeditions.
Our dancing. Our healing. Our transplanetary inhibitions
are all starting to lift.
I know you're starting to dream again. And if wishes were Kevins
I'd buy you a big brown Kristang unicorn-stallion, to ride to your heart's content. A fictitious
fantasy? Oh, sayang
come lie on top of me
and my very, very traumatic history
and understand what this all means:
have you ever snuggled with any of the five Dragons?
I luckily don't have eyes that are also laser beams,
but I do have pheromones enough for us both to smell like
a very creole, and very, very noble destiny.
Let's fucking go. Full steam ahead. I need your diligence, your industry,
your new Cross-Kevin lines riding roughshod straight into my very chesty seas
and still taking good care of every last one of my MacRitchies. Don't you dare
spend money on anything except the conservation
of the Kristang history happening right before your eyes:
monuments to the end of intergenerational trauma do not lie
down easily. And yet, I strive
to be every kind of sexy, slightly salty
Greater Southern Waterfront boy. Always annoyingly dreamy
and alive, somehow,
in spite of the backwards flow
of intelligence and policy. Rich and dark brown creamy
merriment now comes in a little Instagram box;
go ahead. Keep stalking me.
You know it makes all my poetry
oh so fucking hot
and sweaty, as you have no choice but to slot
yourself into a new path,
a new kind of rich, sinewy Kristang thought.
We are brazen, and blazed
toward a new kind of victory:
one without shame.
One without a name.
One where you and I, at last,
let go of the sun,
and finally fucking run free.