Interpersonal: An Original Poem

There’s something about gorging myself on an Eileen Myles novel with a highlighter in my hand that causes me to feel far more capable of art than in any other moment. This, and many other pie…

Source: Interpersonal: An Original Poem

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Stop Demonizing Sharon Needles

Sharon Needles is arguably the most controversial Ru Girl. And for some terribly odd reason she is very easy to demonize. It seems like everyone does it in one way or another, and it’s fairly reasonable. So much of it is fear, we seeing a performer so incredibly different from the dorky kid on Drag Race. She has matured and gone through a multitude of phases that have been haphazard and unconventional. She is no longer the twig thin (don’t get me wrong she is still absolutely tiny), goofy haired, kid that only auditioned for Drag Race because his boyfriend was. And people do not react kindly to change.

So many people are still trying to figure out who this Sharon Needles is, and it seems the first things you find on her are terrible sounding. They are misconceptions and blatant lies. Pages and articles accusing her of fascism, racism, and even abuse. It is incredibly easy to get intimidated by her. Hell – I am probably her biggest stan and I got to a place where I didn’t want to meet her. I was afraid. The only way to get around this is to – well, use your fucking brain. Only believe stories from credible people, never go on reddit, and only get your information from people that understand performance art. I can honestly and unbiasedly tell you that I never have  and never will meet a queen that cares so incredibly much about pleasing their fans as Sharon motherfucking Needles.

The night I spent with her was obscenely chaotic, though the venue was amazing (Sharon, Raja, Nina Flowers, some housewife I can’t remember the name of), the organization was shit. The meet & greet was a picture and a hello, with hundreds of people who did not pay for meet & greets, swarming to be the next in line. Nina left close to 20 minutes in, Raja left around 40, but Sharon stayed for nearly two hours. She was drunk and exhausted, just coming from shooting a music video in New York – all she wanted was to be laying in bed, but she held out. Through the chaos and the lies and the bullshit, she tried her ABSOLUTE hardest to make her fans happy. She was visibly about to break down, but after a cigarette and having her boots taken off and toes popped – she went back. “Can we just do 10 more?” She pleaded, and though everyone agreed, she did at least 30. Sharon was taking fans after the club had told everyone except for faculty to leave. All of this is just what I noticed while in between laughs and conversations with her husband. Can you imagine what I missed? And of course, I could put down my entire amazing (personal) experience with her, but if you want that tweet me because I’ve gotta get back to the point.

Yes – she has her diva moments. Her struggles when all she wants is to get away. She does wild and questionable things. But have some empathy for fucks sake. Just for one goddamn second imagine what it is like to be put in the spotlight – one where for some odd reason you are expected to be PC and gentle and something you’re not. Imagine doing shows a number of years ago, that were an attempt to bring forth the terrible racial issues happening – and because idiots misinterpret them – you are called a racist. And not just called. You are bashed, yelled at, protested against. Even when you apologize you are still called out and hated on because apologizing for something you didn’t do isn’t enough. Imagine being in a hard and unstable relationship and it being TORN APART by fame. Imagine then, knowing that and having to bring someone else into the very same circumstances and praying to a God you don’t believe in that it doesn’t happen again. Imagine having an incredible day with the love of your life, and wanting to share a picture of the two of you with your followers, but knowing most of the comments will be bashing him, telling you to get back with your ex. Imagine that and so much more. The pressure. The pain. Try to take on all of that and then tell me Sharon Needles is not incredible. And to quote one of the tweets I posted that inspired this “so literally get off her dick – she may be punk and mad cool and a slight diva – but you will NEVER have to go through what she does”.

Haus of Anus Application

Applicationfor Haus of Anus

Name (out of drag): __________________

Drag Name first name starts with an A, last name must be Anus): ______________

Age: _____

Talents (check all that apply):

Runway            Comedy

Dancing            Acting

Singing             Other (please specify):

Twitter: @

Complete the following:

Haus of Anus should accept ____________, because I am _____________, ____________, and love ___________. I am a cunt because _________________________ and would be the (insert name of drag queen previously on drag race*) ______________ to the Haus of Anus

*please ensure the queen is not already claimed

Telephone

My heart was fluttering like a baby bird,

calling to you, only you.

I was terrified,

the excitement in your voice rang like my great grandmother’s antique telephone.

It works, has a number, but like to the story of us,

it never gets the chance of use.

Too afraid to crush it,

to harm the beauty it already has;

we haven’t yet realized, how much more beautiful it could blossom to be

with a single will of hope and a tiny flip of chance

I often find you,

strolling around and around inside my mind

you are not one for lying on the grass,

not when you could be bounding across the river.

I like that about you.

I am an eager child in your classroom,

begging you over and over again to teach me how to spell

love.

Yes, I have loved another, been loved by many others

No, I have never wanted someone in the gut wrenching, vision clouding, mind cluttering that I want you.

My heart pounds to the beat of your gate as you walk alongside me

My teeth chatter in your presence,

but my soul becomes as calm as ocean waves sweeping over baked sand late in the eve.

And that’s saying something because my soul is never calm.

A sweltering jungle has erupted where the dry desert used to be.

No longer filled with sand and rocks

My life is a place of flowers as big as buildings and leopards that eat grass.,

a safe haven for my wounded heart and trembling hands as I dare to stand back up

To try again

To agree to the possibility that you are not him

That your mouth is one of sweet somethings,

and not sweet nothings.

That your hands will be there to help me along my path

rather than shoving me down the steps

That when you come late in the night

I will be greeted with a warm embrace and a meaningful apology

instead of bitter breath and a vengeful heart

If I told you I loved you it wouldn’t be enough

it wouldn’t mean nearly enough.

Because you make me feel something that even the most powerful words can’t do justice

I long for you, desire you, cherish you.

I need you.

Need your breath on my ear telling me I am yours.

Your eyes burrowing down into the depths of my soul

seeing the decay, rot, and shards of my past and wanting me anyway.

There is something about the way you look at me,

like I am a firework that could erupt any second

you don’t look away,

you can’t dare to miss the beauty of the colors, and the science of the explosion

You look at me like I am worth something more than the cover of a magazine or lead in your movie

and that is something new

and oh my dear lord do I love new.

Art Is a Place (unfinished)

My body is a painting,

and if you take into account the rust under your nails

and the ocean in your eyes

art is a place in which you may lye.

A masterpiece of a greater bad

a sturdy hand with thick veins

and a heavy brow

he has made from you

a home for a passing thought;

a train station of beauty

held in every plot of color and scheme of light,

so that you will have something to hold

in the depth and loss of solen night.

Let your fingertips wander onto the board

filled with chalk and sand as to make

your throbbing heart listen to the ache

in which your sensitivity lives.

Black eyelashes bat and whisper in the sin

of your lies and the sting of your intensity and despise.

Unapologetically pink lips linger on the words of another

and yet so far your body hath not housed one so indifferent

as to your flawless eb of breath and depth of mind.

And you so long to facilitate the meaning and grace

bitten from the ear of procrastination

upon your sturdy shoulders lies the infatuation

with the ruins of rome that so lay in the strands of hair

in which you comb.

Thus into a crisp river painted in strands of watercolors

fleshed of peach, highlights of orange

colors so unique to the draft of God’s water

yet so angelic following the curve of your hip,

as if a suited man hath lottered for your hand.

vines sprawl vastly downwards into plumb legs,

tied close by the direction of beauty

as ever disgusted with absence of  glamour ideals

Lightninging struck your legs at growth

leaving minuscule trails of creation onto the skin in which you call home