agu panjutu / pancur larangan
By kevin martens wong zhi qiang
originally published tuesday, 2 july 2024
on tigri sa chang
Koitadu | Content warning
Please first read about my writing in the Skribadorang or Writing section on the Igleza page here before reading the piece below so you have advance warning about the rather spicy things that I often like to write about, and why I choose to write about them, especially in terms of subverting unhealthy stereotypes about gay people, Kristang people, Creole people, Indigenous people, masculinity, neurodivergence, the body, healthy forms of attraction and sexuality, and using my writing to process the severe individual, collective and inter-generational trauma and abuse I have faced across my life.
So they kept telling me
I am the Water of Life.
So they kept yelling at me
be perfect. Be amazing.
Always be right.
So they kept trying to sell me
a vision of myself where I experienced
no trauma.
All the fear. All the torture.
Just irrational processes happening deep inside
my archaeological
ramparts. Where my secret, forbidden
hill tribes
come bounding out
to excavate yet another hyperOrientalising form
of insight
and meaning.
If God really were real
do you really think They, too, would not be
stealing
glances at this, Their next
Kristang meal?
Boka di dabi.
Boka di
dreaming. Tomah tokah onsong sa
korsang.
Make me burst
and overflow
and inundate the gardens
with healing.
You say you're not courageous.
I say fuck it. I am all parts Indigenous
and Quing of
all those finally learning that their internal
screaming
breaks the tranquil calm of the spring.
Santah kaladu.
Come sit on the Dragon's lap
and let's see
how today will fountain into life
and what rains
tomorrow will bring:
let you drink from my beast-singing rest.
Let you shine.
Let you sing.
Let the heavens groan, and shudder
and make one hell of a Gaietic, regreening mess.
Beng fikah yo sa agu mizadu
sa roza menggaring.