Sexing the music

It felt.
Like.
That.
With my shoulders
firmly pressed
against the control room.
With your tissues’
fancy abnormality
restlessly emerging.
As your lyrics
hung in humid air.
As you moved,
as if making love,
with the helpless crowd.
You were.
And it smoothly felt.
Like.
That.

*Until you spread open the abaniko, and did the most gayish gestures. EVAH.

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