I would write this poem in Malay
but I've been
513 years a half-coloniser
513 years a half-concubine
513 years a half-slave

to those who would fill me with
500 fears about being a demoniser
5000 projections about being a gay lewd predatory womaniser
50000 interjections about being an atheist
a promiscuous creep
an inspirer

of immorality
of bestiality
of trying to climb higher

than my lowly, primitive station
of being Singapore's one and only

psychoemotional

firefighter —

I'm
too smart for this, and/or

simultaneously

too polyamorous
too progressive
too unsanctimonious

too unChristian
too unMuslim

to be this way.
To be
a bleeding son of this land.
Tokah sanggi.
I am still

one of

the gays

no matter my qualities.
No matter the braveries
and the loyalties
that have defined each and every moment
of who I actually am.

A cultural construct
still trying to draw lines in the sand

between what is Kristang.
What is Malay.
What is Hakka.
What is Baba.
What is gay

and what is a man
who still has something from the heart

to say.
Whose testicles dangle like ripe, dreaming fruits
in front of all those who still dare, in front of
their own queer selves

to weep
and turn away

from their own cells.
Their own scientific know-how
of how
and why

they go astray.

Their own fears
that drive them deep inside
to deny themselves
the truth of how
to actually pray:

sit quietly.
Santah kaladu.
And learn that to be you

is to be brave.
To be a godless, prophetless infidel
lion child

forever
and to know

that your heart is in the right place.
Your body

is most definitely
in the right race.

Your sun-soaked Malay supersoaker skin
and mind,
dreams and

life

are no disgrace.

They are flowers.
They are powers.
Lisan al-Gaib,
Muad'Dib,
Dragon Reborn,
Kevin Martens:

they are simply
yours always

to embrace.