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One day we will learn to love ourselves.
The fat ones will stop dreaming of chubchasers,
Those fauns who hang from love-handles.
The skinny ones will dare to wear tight tops.
The old ones will stop claiming they look
At least five years younger, over telephones.
The young ones will walk into pubs and
Not feel the need to be needy.
We will learn that muscles are like doorknobs
That hint nothing about empty rooms.
We will learn that a big cock is a miracle,
But only of hydraulics.
Just because a body has been pierced,
Tanned, or landscaped with tough flesh
Does not make it an armour.
Just because a body has not been touched
Does not mean it is eager for lessons.
When two people kiss there is the possibility
Of love, not its confirmation.
When three people kiss there will always
Be one who feels left out.
When two strangers fuck the healing
They do is the unstitching of old wounds.
One day the homo boy jacking off in his bed
Will know that there are other aftermaths
Aside from nightmares, sleep, or guilt.
One day someone will walk up
To the paunchy white man at the party
And genuinely ask what his name tag stands for,
GWM4LTR, worn like a prison code.
At Raffles Place the shophouses will catch fire
And expel the smell of catpiss, and rotting beams.
The shadows of men will grow tall in such an inferno.
Loners will stay back at Fort Road for sunrise,
Even if rays will illuminate pockmarks and scars.
In broad daylight two men holding hands
Will mean nothing, but a symptom of daylight. 
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