Antoine Dodson Doodles in Art Class
(Edited Version)
Today was either cataclysmic or divine. My portrait mugs the Internet, and I reap the pixilation of my face. I’m an overblown meme, a bias breeder. Enunciation spins too fluently, twisting like honey off thorns. Precarious and out of bounds--they say--unaccountable to any dictionary of common cadence. Effeminate, I’m called. Hollywood’s old Sissy back in prime time luminosity. Woman-ish. Sexless sap’s pockmarked sketch, two-toned like an asymmetrical exhibit in a Top Model menagerie, cut loose for time, spectacle and confused design. Boneless face in bent motif. Backdraft hair. Intrepid teeth. A freefall crack binge high collage of limp wrists and neutered face. Biceps curving outside male intent, lips flailing loose of God’s blueprint--they say--like National Enquirer fathers giving milk. Ungainly gesticulations, maiming my father’s configuration. Flapping too much, too slack--they say--freefalling off my mother’s blush. Sexless sap’s self-portrait of gender bent in crayon-wobbled lines. Effeminate, I’m called. I’ve no textbook for a face but pockmarks, flail and gender print like leotards across tongue and dick. Effeminate, I lack title and precision--they say--and action figured me to familiar edge. Effeminate man--they say. Sissy fetters and muscle fail. Instant laugh and sharp recoil. But effeminate is not my name for me.
Paint me a face, Rembrandt, and interpret my cacophony.
No comments:
Post a Comment