Curse the state of contemporary art
Mid-Spring; I sit up front behind Black
Church, an elegant curvature as lithe and
white masculine bodies seize the
season amongst the seizure-inspiring
strobe; when I follow the catwalking
I see the entire audience behind me; angular
asexual. A brutalist movement. And muscle
butch queens are the only semblance of
camp
there is only one black choreographer
and she shouts me down about cunty realness;
scolds the woman in front of me about
her less than ebullient response to her call and
now perhaps less shall travel to Harlem.
Non-existent is the approach.
Is it just
better to not exist?
Question the approach to
the House of Xtravanganza
and other grander
authenticities with custody; even
the highest of priestesses
greet Yemaya with their backs
turned to the ocean
