Malate, what is you?
What is you whose center kills us, dragging sore feet through your doors, newly-laundered from a hard night’s release, what is you? What is you, spiked temptation, whose slaves dance in tight underwear, mixed dragons and glowsticks and bland sunglasses? What is you where eyes, not lips but lips, can kiss and tell and blow from across a room lit in darkness? What is you where we smile in painful grimace through tight shirts and short shorts and shoes that kill as proverbial Cinderellas rushing to your door? What is you, what is you where minds get doubled, where touches mean nothing but touches upon something? What is you where faggots and sluts and call boys and dirty old men and corporate accountants sway, where drag queens and drag kings hold court, where pink is but a shade of a rainbow, what is you? What is you, Malate, where in sweet drunkenness I pass out among the flying sweat and spit and smog and raging testosterone? What is you where gods walk among the peasants, where we swing around poles again and again and again to shift our views – up, down, right, left, right, right, right, right? What is you whose miracle drug turns fat boys to Darnas, where ugly men can land the fairest prince of your holy body? What is you, o MeatMarketMalate, where we jump and slip unto platforms hogging the limelight trying not to fall from the graces of the lords of the lubes? What is you, where we shit on Jane Austen’s remains, shouting FUCK YOU JANE AUSTEN I AM BEAUTIFUL BRILLIANT AND A SLUT, what is you? What is you, beautiful hell, where the smoke can be your dangerous friend or a benevolent fiend? What is you where men dream, eyes shut, the subconscious ruling out every movement of the judgy eye, the spiteful mouth and the bitchy brain? What is you where we frolic in Bed as guys in pink grind their asses up our crotches, seeking short thrills and rapid ascensions, what is you? What is you with your unwritten laws no one obeys or everyone obeys or someone out there unknowingly obeys, mistaking glances or movements or broken veins? What is you where we spot the guy of our dreams lip-locked to a transgendered whore or perhaps a fetid plant? What is you where we pee with each other, peeing on each other, peeing on the super natal super fabulous extrasensory dungeon of our existence, what is you? What is you where we show in two-way mirrors a world of ecclesiastical voyeurisms, putting on a show of apathy when we all want to get laid? What is you, what is your magic, Malate, where we can grope and touch and slide and moan and slither and hiss and be around baboons of our own kind in a zoo of our making? What is you where even girls come, girls come, girls come (right) to be in a factory of horned men not wanting to stick their forks in them, what is you? What is you where men with crooked teeth dance in front of me, stealing from me my right and will to say no? What is you where some leave happy, some leave their happiness, some leave happy and next week leave lonely, some leaving only to return in sixty nine seconds, some leaving for a quick hit, some for paid sex, some for the necessity to crap, some leaving you, some living in you? What is you where we remember Queer as Folk and seek to be Brian Kinney or to fuck Justin Taylor or to be Justin Taylor or to marry Justin Taylor or just be in a weird love-hate-fuck relationship that isn’t that weird to begin with, what is you? What is you where I can dance against the wall, in front of the wall, behind the wall, grinding below the wall to be in front of god, behind god, inside god? What is you where everyone is a fetish of everyone and everyone gets on stage and acts a whole Tony-award-winning scene with an Oscar-worthy performance but no one claps? What is you where beer is consumed, morbidly overpriced beer to flaunt as if everyone cares you have a beer or that you have money for beer or even if that beer tastes good, what is you? What is you, secret Antony of my dreams, where we march in rows of nameless, faceless profiles protesting the violence of war and the unstoppable dominos of the institution? What is you where we shout in hushed voices our souls as they intertwine with the floor into an ephemera of colorful whisps evaporating to the neon beats? What is you where we pass drugs through clenched fists, the ecstasy pounding on our ears the on-going beats of the drums of the execution? What is you where my partner dances out of beat, randomly bumping me, randomly bumping into me, shoulder hitting shoulder, fist hitting chest, leg heating foot, knee bruising knee, hair straight to the nose, fleeting images of dandruff shampoo exhausting my nose as I put my arm around him, what is you? What is you, Malate, what is your secret password to mend pains? What is you where everyone acts straight, everyone pretends to be something else, everyone is buff and strong and manly until the bartender plays Christina Aguilera and we bow down in reverence? What is you, what is your cosmic secret, what is your divine, Malate, what is your god, what power permeates through you, permeating through me, through us, through every single pore of every single area of skin, through every vein, every organ, every erect and flaccid penis, what is your goal, what is your miracle, what is your device, what is your climax, what is your orgasm, what is your erogenous area and how do I lick it? What is you, Malate, what is your name? What is you where everyone is queen of the night?
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