Day 24: Queer Icon

How dare they.

How dare they.

Their faces stare at me

Through some twisted reflection,

Elongated connection

That extends forth and protrudes violently.

Make sure to be scene.

This title that was emblazened on walls

Now feels violated,

Tampered with/ by conformity

+ hetero-normality.

This has been raped.

I have been lied to.

For now I look up at walls that surround me,

Large white walls that echo any other wall

That surround small pictures of otherness

And I am disturbed.

Why frame and border something and someone

That is borderless?

Why link and determine and name each one for

Each is different?

This ‘gay’ seems trapped, seems

defined yet blends

So easily into nothingness.

And as I look I feel a tenuous

connection develop

From portrait to portrait to

port[straight].

It all seems so normal.

No pink walls, or drag kings nor tutus.

No bludgeoned protestor, kiss or sex.

This was boring ‘gay’ diluted with straight icons.

This was ‘famous’ gays that transcend through popular culture

And land firmly in daytime TV.

Where are the young?

This gay gallery defines itself so readily

Yet only in this gallery,

This artistic space does

Gay mean normal.

Gay mean straight.

Wandering through other portraited corridors

I seek the abnormal.

I seek ‘straight’.

I wonder where I might find icons that exhude heterosexuality?

Bush, Jordan and Clint Eastwood?

Brando, Putin and Jim Davidson?

Peter Pace, Jill Knight, Stephen Green?

Fred Phelps and all his fucking family…

Now there’s a room I would pay to see.

How dare they.

How dare they.

Their faces stare at me

Through some twisted reflection,

Elongated connection

That extends forth and protrudes violently.

Make sure to be scene

This title that was emblazened on walls

Now feels violated,

This has been raped.

I have been lied to.

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