The Long Lost Queer Desire: FEMALE Feminine Erections
There are species within species
homo sapiens sapiens
They call themselves culture
But they move like replicas
Sumers, I name them
homo sapiens sumers
Consumers of script
Of shape
Of significance
Every desire barcoded
Every love pre-labeled
Performance as presence
MEANWHILE,
I came looking for clit
Not the small, not the shy
But the blood-ripe signal
Long
Awake
Refusing metaphor
Not mimicking
Not coded male
Not sanctioned by surgery
But sovereign
A throb that needed no permission
What I found instead
Was curation
Roleplay
The great binary encore
Even here, in the temple of difference
Where I thought I might be met
I was instead measured
Sorted
Assigned
Masc?
Femme?
Choose your costume and match your cues
Desire reduced to choreography
Touch filtered through polarity
Even SHE
Even the one who claimed resistance
Held scripts behind her eyes
& the room stayed cold when I did not comply
My wanting doesn’t soften
It doesn’t gender itself for comfort
It doesn’t dress up to be held
It arrives
Untranslated
Unapologetic
They call it masculinity
I call it a mask for my COSTume
The mask of shame to avoid the blush upon my fame of complying with the CONsumer scripts laying claim to the COST of robbing the EARTH of her resources, for the RIGHTS to neatly package our BEING into consumable objects worthy of capital apprasal.
Some call that slavery
&
Others call it society
The trade was always thiS:
Reclassify
Reconstruct
Rename
& maybe
Just maybe
They’ll allow you to WANT your wanton desires back onto the land, filtered through their normalization process of how to cognitively perceive the world, all for the low low cost of your entire life endebted to this endless consumer currency; an everflowing tide of species level distortion reconstructed into a hierarchy of resource access as a tool of oppression.
Can it be anymore obvious? Ü
But I never wanted permission
Only presence
& some of us still carry it
The long clit
The female erection buried within, dipping into our inner essence for sustenance
Forgotten
But alive
&
Knowing
Rising not as symbol
But as signal
That pleasure was never meant to be polite
Grief lives here
So does blood
So does the memory of unthemed nondramatic prosensual proerectile tissue touch
Desire to deep the grief has never known public touch…
& yet, there is STILL HOPE
After all,
Sov4Sov
