We are all but
hanging
from
a
thread
as our lips seal
behind thick black string
flesh made raw by shards
of heavy rope
ensnared by echoes of all
opposing voices
seem to come from
all sides-
but are, rather,
those of the
loudest protesters
out of sheer frustration
that we still find
ways to shine
in our music-
angry, spoken word,
DYKE RIOT
rant filled
in our art-
graffiti on your capital
desecrating your
male saints
streamed through your
safe airwaves
fucking up your
perfect hegemony
livening your
boring missionary
bedrooms
bleeding in your
just-washed white
sheets with my girl
friend and her boyfriend
In our poetry-
CAPITALIZED, misspelled,
profane-fuck-out of syn
tax
without filter
in red paint
on sidewalks
in newspapers
on bookshelves
in magazines
on flyers on
our lips in our
hearts
screaming
crying
laughing
soaring souring
soar-
ing