Lunalogue by Cunnichant Night Owl
(OVO 3 1987)

You're not the first fag to spend the night here. How else do you think I got this deadly poison blood? Fags, queers lipstick on my collar, my creamy thighs, my lacy panties from late night drag queens in the park. Some sweet boy thought I was called “Ciel,” French for sky like his eyes, but it was “C. L.” for cock lick. I ain't no fag hag or missionary trying to show you how good a real woman can be. I'm some sort of ink blot, magic talking mirror. “Hey hon, it's not your fault you were born. You can stay here, relax. Nice nail polish. Nice jacket. Nice song. Oh, is that what happened when your daddy found out? Did it hurt?” Rushes of tears, outstretched arms in the dark, sobbing passion with fags, dykes, breeders, like up between my legs is the mother nature of some other planet where whips aren't erotic and the night is only moonlit and sweet. Like my womb is the proverbial one we're all trying to get back to.

Hey, I'm not trying to feed my ego. I'm not even saying I could pull off the role. I barely knew what it was until I woke up with bruises and nausea, smelling like Jack Daniels, looking at some puppy dog face that said I was supposed to fix things. I just really believe in all that corny shit about peace and harmony. I didn't know y'all would want to find it in a warm place hidden in me.

You're not the first faggot to wake up next to me. He takes a deep breath and throws back his gorgeous lion mane and says maybe we're too queer for the fags. Because somewhere safe and warm beyond the anger is a world where what we do does not reassure the oppressors that they are the “natural” ones and our white skin does not buy us money to spend on companies that keep the darkies down. And somewhere on the streets of Southern Carolina it ain't like that at all. We want to do right in a place where queers are the ones going to concentration camps and breeders are sending us, where women are raped and men are raping us. Where whips are sexy and at night doors are locked. Where you left me to write a poem for a man, to relax in the belief that men are men and women are women. Ambiguity gets more and more intolerable when you can see the death of yourself and your planet so god damned clearly on your TV, in the smog, in your heart.

Now, sometimes my stomach tightens when I see two men walking together and I yell at myself “You're wrong!” Malcolm X is somewhere in my head shouting how even the nice blue-eyed devils won't show up when the time really comes. But I know I'd stand by what I believe before I'd lose that other sweet world I keep in my womb. And they'd send me to the camps with you in a second, baby, because we all got the same deadly blood in the salty warm night, when for once something didn't ask if we were queer. So, I'm standing firm and you're back in my bed living with the terrible ambiguity of honesty, where you make my nights feel moonlit and sweet.