As a transsexual, you will be not be spared anywhere.
Your mother will find you a deranged psychiatrist and she would never
understand what the deal with your 'thing' is.
Your cousins will find it delirious and even if
Oprah gets you on telly, she will tweak your anatomy under advertisement FLASHES.
So where will you go with this heartache?
Oh, sorry nobody acknowledges that.
Testicular eyes only land on brackets. Your ID card. Your passport.
The sonic boom between M and F.
But your mood grows all over it. Your fingers learn tricks to lurk.
Your chin hides, bandages tapered over sunken breasts.
Your blood summons the mirror. Loud electroclashes.Like Andy Warhol getting screwed by million webcams.
As this transie, you will lose faith in somethings.
Lose faith in this language that always outs you.
Abhor washroom queues. Hide stronger balls,softer chests.
But you got that fearless swagger. A neon bandana over lips.
In this city of cloned shirts and tasteless skins, you rule it.
You rule, lover. You rule, lover.
You always fucking do.
Come inside a smokey room. With a paper and pen. Incense and cigarettes, flowers and water. They all go together, too well.
No comments:
Post a Comment