I want to Strip for You Baby
When you hold me, speak soft words to me, and help ground me
When I feel like a light and explosive planet knocked off its course,
You find a way to center me on my timid axis
So I know that even when I feel as small and insignificant as Pluto,
I am, at the core, an everlasting piece of legacy within my small family of beloved planets.
But Baby, I am still scared for my haphazard orbit. I am still an arbitrary, piece of volatile matter
That will never be prepared to partake in the inexorable entropy.
I am one of billions of shouts into the void, another starry-eyed fool bound for oblivion.
Along with everyone, I am aware of Sartre’s truths
And I am stuck in this fixture of inevitable doom.
Yes, I’ll orbit, but I will never escape the Sun that will swallow all of this…
I am gawky and will continue to run in circles—
Trying to escape my own demise in vain as I blindly chase my proverbial tail.
This mind, this body, and these emotions all sometimes seem so abstract.
I am one of my own artworks, disposable and irrefutably unoriginal.
No matter how much you trace, caress, and kiss my sloppy canvas,
I will always be the “inferior” Cassatt looking up to the “genius” that is Degas.
I will always, in the eyes of this patriarchal and hegemonic-diseased world,
Be a woman, never an artist…again…always a woman, never an artist.
This mind, this body, and these emotions…I forget that all are mine.
My mind, my body, and my emotions.
Aren’t I an interesting canvas?
So messy, so chaotic, so ugly, but interesting enough
To have a typecast: Dadaism.
Dadaism is human. Humanity is Dadaism. I am Dadism.
Layered with goops of paint, layered with chaotic and irrational—
Pounds of nothingness. I am a non-artist performing and making non-art
Because at the end of the day, everything is meaningless and I am absurd…
But Baby, when you turn me on…
Not in the let’s-lock-the-door-and-talk-dirty-to-me kind of ways,
But the sweet, the twisting, god-seeing, eye-opening ways
I want to say Lord have mercy, because I love you.
In your eyes, I am more than “acceptable”, and oh lord,
I think I might “self-destruct” with all these sins, Dada cannot be
But I want to “self-deconstruct”…
I want to STRIP for you baby.
I want to show you my layers of paint,
The ugly errors and the “OKAY” brush strokes.
See how the bourgeoisie had tragically produced me,
And how I rendered my own creation.
I want to STRIP for you baby…
Strip the inhibitions, the paranoia,
And the fears so I can love you
To infinity and beyond…
I’m tired of my lonely and recluse orbit.
I seem to spin faster, finding beautiful nuances
in your brown skin, tender boldness in your starry-eyes,
and orchestral chansons in your voice, and my god,
Am I a lucky fool to have you crash through
my ungodly amounts of atmospheric layers…
and at the mesopshere, leaving fiery trails in my night sky
and clearing a space for me to breathe.
I might explode if you go away, or if you come closer,
but I will explode anyway, some day,
And I’d rather be in your arms, colliding
with you…partaking in combustion.
So that way, in this cosmic space,
in this galaxy of ours…
We might find this infinity,
this harmonious existence AND essence,
this controlled yet crazy dadaism,
of beauty, art, and freedom…
And then maybe, baby,
I can really STRIP for you,
clothes on the floor and all.