What is his raison d’etre for fighting?
Where does he get the strength for his shining?
Why does every one of our projections need so much reminding?
I don’t know how he doesn’t stop.
I don’t know how nothing he writes isn’t a flop.
I don’t know how he has ignored every single one of our lollipops.
(Other people call them thirst traps.
You wanted me to think of them as rewards.
Now I just think of them as
the horde).
But back to the pen and the mighty, unstoppable sword:
what is Kevin Martens’ reason for writing it all?
Tell us, poem,
because we need to know.
Nothing we do is stopping the growth
of this Tigri sa Jank, isti Tigrisombreru.
Nothing we do seems to impede the flow
from our minds onto this poem.
Stop telling us this, poem!
We didn’t come here to know when
he is reading our minds;
we came here to know how to make him find the time
to slow down.
To stop writhing.
To let all the words continue their dying.
To make sure Sundaland sinks back into denying
itself, and all that it is hiding.
Poem, how can you not know?
Do you know how many people we’ve assigned to this?
Do you know how much restraint our moderators are forced to exercise
do you know ludicrous
it gets, when you expend that much time
on controlling one single person’s ability to redefine
the past, present, future and lives
of you, me and our ancestors,
and the reasons they came here to write.
This is the reason:
purely to stay fully, and uncompromisingly, alive.