born into a brothel, this body withers and tears through ethiopian skin, nigerian hair, ecuadorian cheeks, korean eyes, to land in bangladesh. bang bang bang. this is a hold up! i screamed at my moment of death in america, when i entered school for the first time. it was a 13 year bid that would cost me my life and i've been tracing the footsteps back to the beginning of time before fayrooz became a sensation in beirut, and the middle east was set ablaze by petrodollars that hired my cousin from the grahm. we haven't talked in a dozen. it's been a dozen. december. 2013. i am atleast 500000 years old, but i only remember the traumatic rebirth into the modern, like i were an iphone 6, as if there were never a cord, or never not instagram. my historical amnesia has gotten me hysterical gazes from the dying trees permanently in winter in this drying city that sucks on my nipples until i am a euncuh and begging for change like a diva, like the rupaul-alikes in the indian metros who walk with a shift and demand to be heard, seen, and adored.. i adore the stares from my hold up, when i blaze through fashion with a close of my eyes and an open of my I. Higher than the high i got from the 40's and blunts and kennedy fried chicken munchies up on the ave with eddie and hap walking outta ed's whip epileptic, like we hit the pipe of freeway rick ross.
today was a long journey on the trains and buses. i'm almost there. there is next door, where everything Shines.
What drag queens on the Indian Metro???? :D
ReplyDeleteMinna
eunuchs - men in saris - walked through the congested metros, with a shift and no shake of the cups that the beggars before them carried. they didn't need to. the people around me seemed to be awed by them, as if they were spooks who sat by their door. ya, a trip.
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