A red Rollercoaster
runs into the room,
screams and arms
flying through the air.
Circles of colour linger
on pale arms and legs,
on the taut stomach
of an American Woman. A lone clock
runs past, distressed,
missing her pendulum. And Purple Rain
is playing pool with Scream,
umbrella discarded.
In the corner, a Hero in leotard
and gold cape
is kissing a bull, fingers searching his fur.
I watch as girls with broken wings
have their photograph taken
with a walrus,
watch men with lipstick and dresses
shrug when questioned why.
In my white satin and jeans
I could be almost normal,
but my words don’t slur enough,
my hips don’t roll invitingly.
My lips aren’t laced
with alcohol, and my song is barely known.