Denie’s Dee’s SST9 Studio Show Final Draft (tech list sent via email)

9 Jul

When asked Of
Carnival Preachings
Words pack themselves into my suitcase mouth.
Folding into silence.
Iron pressed by amnesia.
Tumble-dried into confusion
Refusing to come out.

No one speaks of the 16 year old sweating
from love’s sin.
A congregation, drenched in doctrine
Lovers of adrenaline
telling her
that melanin,
was never meant to mix that way.
Girls, never meant to be way
and that love
Well love came dressed in the cloak of gender.
She had simply confused the two.
Ready to free her from Sodomy’s shackles.
They said, it was in her mind

I watch them.
Celebration discharged like infection in her ears
Praise, dancing on the roof.
Tambourine’s slashing
Heartbeats drumming
Guitar strings strumming
Something wrong with her’s humming
The floor, twerking the vibration of rhythmic feet
Voices claw the air’s diaphragm squeezing the chorus of
how he “keeps on doing great things”
is “able to do exceedingly abundantly above”
can “free her of her demons”
Flipping sinners to priesthood.
They said, that it was only in her mind.

She never meant to be that way.
Floating after girls lips as she did boys
Preferred hearts over the make of their toys.
She never asked to play chess with the devil.
to be presented as a pawn at Carnival Preachings as….
an example of what NOT to be.

She kneels there
greased to the floor
Stretching hands that hinge on fear’s arthritis.
Stretched towards a pulpit
Towards salvation
Her body, an island of difference
curled away from the church wall’s echoed gossip
that might as well have screamed
“you are NOT normal”.
She flinches from them
Believer’s eyes, skimming her body like spotlights
a carnival freak-show for the saved.

I watch her.
Self hate, moon-walking chestnut skin
She buildings a fortress under the kinky tangled knots of her head
wondering, if she had dosed herself in enough femininity to be acceptable.
After all
It had been said that dressing that way
had been the smoke alert for slithering demons of same sex love.
That was the day she swore to change her look for god.
Thinking, that her skirt would invite blessed desires
when she couldn’t think straight.

She dares not look up
Willing her skin to be emancipated
from whips of embarrassment thrashing her bones.
And now they wonder why she never learnt to love herself.

Intoxicated by the confusion’s turbulence.
She lays there,
spilling
Unable to contain herself
ready for the irrigation of her insecurities into compliance.

No one speaks of the debris of deliverance
Of the passion metamorphosing to ptsd screams every night.
After all, ‘god hates fags right’?.
She spurts into submission
Convinced that it’s okay to be the Sunday freak show
as long as she is saved.

In love with Carnival Preachings
People shovel the screams
of innocent children under their gums.

No one speaks of the no man’s land it has made of her
How she shares coffee with rejection every morning.
Twitching from lover’s hands
Telling herself, that if the church walls hid in silence
so should she.
I hardly blame her
For when it happened to me,
I too once chose not to speak

Sure of its exorcism rights,
Carnival Preachings lie in a bed of holiness
Veiled
too afraid of what they will find.
that maybe, just maybe
her love was never a transgression.
but then of course,
if they admitted that
these freak-shows would have no audience.
Few would be left
Saying….
Amen.

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