from the kristang snack van
By kevin martens wong zhi qiang
originally published wednesday, 21 february 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.
Coming right up. Strawberry generation shortcakes
from the flaming devil-merlion's pan.
Steak? Running both well done, and dry
and wet. Mashed Portuguese-Eurasian brotatoes.
And a milky dream-smooth tiger-shake
made ever so generously
by vigorous, pumping neo-indigenous
hand.
Alamak.
(It's also now a Kristang brand.)
Don't tremble, sayang.
Take it all in. And then sit
your ass
down quietly. There.
On the grass.
My grass, I mean.
Oh god
doesn't my cutlery
feel so fucking
grand?
For god's sake
don't fucking tell your parents
anything
about how irreverently heavenly it all tastes.
This self-regard was diabolically divinely refined
and always made
to share.
Come back next time
and I'll make the prawn head
a little more wet.
I'll even let you put some of your own love
in the Kevin-oven
if you dare.
Beng kumih kung garfu, kuleh
kung faka
kung mang gijigiji.
This Kristang table
is always so lavishly and nakedly set.
I just hope you like it
radiantly heaty.