We’ll take this land and make it gay. All its plains and rivers. The Vistula will turn gay, the Warta will turn gay, the Oder will become gayest of all. It’ll wiggle its gay waters to Madonna at her gayest.
We will come out to you time and time again. Make you look away in disgust. Pick at the many brims of your skirt with the multitude of your hands. Storm out, shattering the thousands of glazed doors. Give us a collective face slap. Hug us to your forever-sobbing chest and say you fear we’ll be murdered in the streets. Some of us will.
We are the rainbow plague, the worst this land has suffered. Worse than town-slaughtering troops. Worse than child-raping priests. Worse than protester-strangling police. Worse even than neighbours setting a barn ablaze.
We’ll sit you down and make you watch us in all our fabulousness. All the dykes and faggots and trannies of this land. Do a little lap dance if you behave. Feed you a Tatra-sized serving of glitter-stuffed pierogi.
We will celebrate queer masses, give out queer communion, wrap every Madonna’s head in a rainbow halo.
We’ll come for your children. Make your daughters and sons alike throw flowers at a year-round pride parade. Teach your toddlers to masturbate. Squash your infants into lube.
The death camps you wish to put back into service for us we’ll repurpose as gay bars. Our army of drag queens will use the piles of clothes for their gowns, weave the hair into wigs. We’ll karaoke our lungs away while prancing along the railway tracks. Put a disco ball in every gas chamber.
We’ll take what never belonged to us. Shove the last of your coal up our fist-welcoming sphincters and crush it into diamonds. Make them rain down on the golden rye fields and smoke-spewing plants, the pine forests and landfills.
When there is nothing left but bedazzled wasteland, we will stop, the millions of us, and hold our hands in the open for the first time.