Who are you?
You are not yourself.
What is your identity?
My female idiosyncracy.
I am my make-up.
Applied tones of gaudy glare
and wigs of elaborate hair.
I pretend to be a star
because  that’s what they are.
Copy her movement and voice,
in  screams, exaggerated gestures,
and sham emotions.
I mime the flaming queen
in faggot finery.
Organdie eye candy.
A transparent mind.
Superficial veneer in shiny chic.
Volumes of muti-coloured tulle.
Floating foamy chiffon.
What a shallow show!

To feign a female,
I paint stain and dye.
I want an xx  chromosome,
not an xy.
Slide down the sexual spectrum
hold an imitation rainbow
whose colours give
ostentatious performances
and push me to
the feminine place.
Where I play myself,
touch myself,
and masturbate to
a mechanical orgasm.
I lose my identity
for one fractional second,
suspended in paradise.

When you copy a fake
or fake a copy,
you have the pathetic pretence
of sequin sincerity.
The flamboyance,
not the talent.
Everything for effect,
nothing for the soul.
An opaque revelation
while making a scene.
A drag queen.

The effeminate eccentric.
The flappy faggot.
The petulant pansy.
The quaint queer.
The truculent transvestite.
The drama queen.
The gay guy,
who does not hide behind
the translucent veil,
but flutters and flashes
it around for the viewers.
A drab debut to boos-booze.
A technicolour depression.

I willl profane violate
and pollute the pure,
for applause.
That is my transfusion.
A silky frilly fix
to persuade my body
into mock ecstasy.
The show must go on—goon.
Give head to this idea,
that it is a genetic dead-end.