those old kristang poets of yore
By kevin martens wong zhi qiang
originally published monday, 3 june 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.
What do you think they would say,
knowing that their entire culture generally hinges
on the words of
well
a gay
dressed to the nines
in his underflair?
No stains. No lies.
Just some newfangirled form of
Dragon Reborn glare
that only makes you cry
if you dare
do stupid, thoughtless things
even though you are aware
the ancestors
they are always
watching
waiting for you to repair
the damage
we all still cause.
By being fools.
By being every kind of very
lost
cause of Death
all too well-known.
Bro's out here in his wonderplans.
Out here seemingly alone
far beyond one-night stands.
Bro's gone and ultraexcavated himself
a throne
for the creolistically endless.
A loan
for the atavistically shameless.
A role
for those still trying to impress
their own names in gold
upon their own bright eyes,
their own righteous cries—
I don't wanna see Kevin Martens Wong's ass
since I still can't see my own.
I still don't know what colonised means.
I still think destinies somehow grow on
hope
and free, insipid will alone.
Nope.
Still
trying on ancestral planes for size.
Let's stop playing Portuguese,
and let's really start giving all the Kristang dead
one hell of a new lease of heavenly, homecomely life.