I do tend to seem a little audaciously
forward, but I think you can appreciate the common sense. It's not untoward
for a smart Kristang man-woman
to take his thing, and things
into his own hands,
and make them a little more prudent.
Because what gets pruned off, more and less, is allusion.
Is mere mentions
of the way you fucked over my students,
the way you claimed your abuses of me were pursuant
to your own lays of the land.
I checked, sometimes and often
and always:
I know by whose hand
I write, and by whose minds
I choose to lamplight my standards.
I might not be the priest, or the vanguard
of a new era of static, arid rain, darkened and hard;
well, might is might not.
I just am not, not by any measure or planned art
form that you will use, yet again,
to claim that you meet the
Evening Standard.
That somehow, miraculously,
peer review and/or a publisher showing interest in you
means you are a new scholarly or literary vanguard.
It's just an art, darkened and hard
of letting things lie fallow, and laggard
in the soil where you smashed my mirrors and left them to die.
The last I checked,
the world has sometimes shown more interest in my body instead.
And if you claim that that, too, is a lie —
by all means, go ahead.
My confidence has repealed homosexual antiquated colonial-era threatening Western influence anti-Asian value laws.
I know what qualities are and what significance is,
no matter what you think you fucking saw.
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