mysterious foreigner

i hate tim kelly.

he didn’t dump, impregnate, or infect me.

he wrote shoddy take offs of good musicals.

i hate tim kelly.

mr. fuqua, my seventh grade glee teacher, adored.

despite his profession,

this confession is ha-ha not queer funny.

i hate tim kelly.

i hate the one role he reserved for the browns

like hurricane smith’s mysterious foreigner.

cursed and turbaned, the spot on an ivory stage

threatens all with a spatula and death rattles.

now, i reclaim cunt

cause my purple lips create

spoken word out of obscenity.

the elderly white auditioning vag holder

could not call to maya, toni, nikki

as i appear to shout.

still unsatisfied and unrepresented,

my fingerprints smooth away

as i feverishly type my own caste.

my plays are eloquent pornographies

depicting brown sappho terrorists

beating tim kelly with a broken spatula.

naked, exotic, violent, and aroused.

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