Citrus everywhere: tequila republic, terracotta barcrawl.
The tropics migrating north. Our museum sports
stilettos to stumble with. Climate as deepthroat, as
decoronation. Off with the headmistress’s papers.
Cage her. We’re calling the installation The Viral
Unqueen–it will make wet the wistful, quench
sovereigns. Coined words on wall plaques are
*not* fiscal appropriation. All the pert umbrellas
have been banished from all the drinks as monsoons
we now realize are not metaphors for torpor. They
are torpor itself. Art is only happy to be gazed upon
once it recognizes its pornography as ontological. How
we rub off the royalty in a finale we call the Antoinette.
Our art has agency. We pay Janet and her underlings
top dollar to scour the casting couch for what comes
close: loose change, tang, door hinge. We ache to paint
a sun going down on the wall but setting is a western
deconstruction. All those silly forks to learn. Dialectic.
Oyster. Pitch. If you look to the skies where night rises
like oil in a derrick, and wait—always a slick dauphin.
A viciously-centered orb surfacing, a dimpled boy
dubbed and glowing and flagrant with history.