Untitled (as the Other)
Untitled (as the Other)
My Body as a Work of Art
Oh, the outer layer pans out beauty.
but once to strip down naked
the grotesque rears its head
My body when exposed,
(as it well should be,
to be given presence.
Its absence is denied privilege)
is meant to shock, meant to provoke,
to disgust
But you say,
Now, that can never be!
for you, with the privileged gaze,
you with the one with the eyes to undress,
the one who can dream about a reality that
is only simulation, and a dream that is only too real.
For you see, this body is twisted
is transformed
is reinvented
is made anew
is contaminated, what have you
this body is not a natural creation,
(but again, whose is?)
Let me expose it to you now, this body as art
to show the tainted body,
this body that disgusts and repulses
a body that will never be accepted by you as complete,
(and yet is strangely so more complete than yours)
(Alas!) There you see the synergistic combination
of the two privileged genders, or these perceived opposites
combined into
a single body
a body as a work of art
through the contaminated art of biology,
the manipulative objects of medicine
an art that is not pleasing to the eye,
but is all art to be pleasing?
This body, as poor as a representation as it may be,
of either sex or gender, sexes or genders that are to come
demands
to be looked at, to be derailed at, to be scorned at
to be yelled at, to be taunted at, to be screamed at
for at least, at that point, it is acknowledged
it is for once given the presence
the privilege of presence
And so you see, or rather do not see, or maybe do not wish to see
this body will be stripped naked,
with my own willingness,
not for you,
but for me,
for me to speak and not be told to shut up
this body as art will be disseminated,
as a message.
My, or rather this (for it is never owned), body is a work of art,
of grotesque art,
of art that lacks beauty,
that defies aesthetics,
but finds in itself a lack of inner peace, that is peace.