Take me off, first,
to a quiet place,
a land of milk and honey
where others is most certainly a race

to figure out who will be setting the pace this time,
and who will be starting the climb
up to Golgotha, or grace, or whatever you want to call it;
I just know my penis and my ass absolutely like it

when you demonstrate that you indeed, have great taste
in men;
first comes the shirt, and then the tightening of what depends
on how much you have to give, and how much I want to spend;

that stanza was about saliva, I mean,
and on ensuring that my torso and waist and every single part of me teems
with your very courageous distress;
I, too, stick out my tongue as a measure of catharsis

and let it lie fallow in places that are too shallow;
regrettably, significant trauma appears to have frayed the nerve endings in my nipples
but I still know how to squeal when you touch me in the exact

place where my pants come off, next,
and you have to admit, those are also some legs;
this Dreamtiger's calves have definitely been making some milk.
It's not sin, it's not filth,

it's just that I'm now stuck in my underwear
with rings around my arms and nipples and flowers where my chest hair
should have been; I'm very sadly thirty and extremely flirty
but in some ways (alcohol is another) I have never been so unEurasian; no, the hair

is a Dreamtiger's fur, matted and seeping
into the biases that still endure, as you finally reach my briefs

and everything demures,
as I dance for the Lion City,
a golden, gay brown blur
so full of affinity

for you reading this at home,
locked up in your study
(or your toilet, or anywhere, really)
where you can finally let reality
disrobe, and be free of National Day decree;

I remember what it was like to want myself so shamefully.

But shame, as it turns out,
tends to live rent-free.