Faggots Dream in Blood Glitter

I bag chicks like groceries

although in Cali bags ain’t free no more

like turn your chick to yellow m n m’s how my nuts inside her

like turn your chick to Damascus the way she blowin me up

like scored highest on the Kinsey Scale

like… pussy as a portal


like I crawl underneath her skin

a skin sheet over my androgyny

hide both lips

draped and dwelled inside her perimeters

let me in

let me stay


so please don’t die

b/c I am still fighting to love properly

bare fists still always healing

with crust

re-torn baby pink to sear and scar


any legacy in legs

we tangle spread and ignore


the place btw being gay and being straight

just being human being

human doing

human fucking  and loving


dyke bitch faggot meaning I dream of you

meaning I long to touch you


dyke bitch faggot meaning can I have this dance?

meaning her parents come to the wedding

meaning they don’t watch us hold hands on the train


dyke bitch faggot meaning without disease

meaning still beautiful but dead


but today I am without exit wounds.


Imagine if JK Rowling got booty injections


Imagine if Hilary Clinton got tittie implants

Women will be clouds

We will be expelled in billows that puff

Of cumulus and cirrus

Born up to our necks in gasoline

With matches for lips

Waiting to be struck in the face


The rain drops

drop tops


Imagine if men’s penises dripped

chunky blood 12 times in one planet rotation

painting tags of King’s names

in maroon glops across city sidewalks

and wheat lined country roads

on tractors and trains

all spotted

with browning stains


the barbed wire of their bottom halves

chain linking their temperaments

in waves of rage and sorrow beating up and down

eyelids into floral tears

salt water to add to the ice caps melting



melting chocolate on the double boiler pots

but the flame curdles the sweetness

into burnt streaks

striations in the foundation of the sauce




just imagine, if non-kids genderlessly still imagined


The Farmer in the Dell


Enjoy girls.

Enjoy, girls.


scissoring ribbons in the sky

to curl tails

coiled pigtails

framing pink cheeks

this is how we juju on the beat

babe status

wined and swined

purple tinted teeth

slaughtering squeals

in a shed

in the back

from the back

behind the curtain

a form of scissors


criss crossing legs over backs

slit slits

to hang upside down

and bleed out

the ribbons still curling

in rigamortis

Enjoy girls.

Enjoy, girls.


It’s all no one is talking about..


What if these fallen angels are really just homosexuals

fuckin similar bodies for celestial seminaries


this cohabitation



this space


We get like 70 years or so maybe

and I drink plastic bottle whiskey too many days a week

smoke out of cotton candy corner store cigars

it is too short

not to hear how you feel

how I feel

it fluctuates

but I say it anyway

to change it up the next day


and this Jenn is really just the old Jenn

with more melanin


and that Daniell is really just

the old Danyell with more languages

on her tongue

less melanin


I want to be yours to suck out

w/ lemon & salt

to spit remnants in

a designated bucket

at the table of my own



she doesn’t care my heart got it

wrong, she’s heating the burners

& slicing the onions to fry it anyway.


they say God has a plan for you. Don’t know who they are anyway.

gives you what you can handle


I wonder if the dead can handle it


Notice it

Or destroy it

(and) at the risk of not breathing


we the people believe in the idea that squeezing the pus out

is better than keeping

the pocket

in body

but the red gap


holds more notice and questions

than the swelling of dirt


with sneakers on fire, incendiary


and those ashes of the dead held in sweaty hands

turns to smut streaks

in palms

smudges on matter already

formed diamonds

from coal

from pressure

from galaxy

godless and questioning

in dried fur shawls

of house caves

where embers

go to die

off without scorching themselves black

on any other pathways


unstruck matches

are the headstones

of smogged bodies


you’re beautiful, remember

furthermore beautiful

by the unaware fact

that you

happen to be beautiful



my eyes are cameras

I’m already enlightened without

silver trays

to reflect the rays

I capture every wrinkle of your face

in the wrinkles of my brain


everybody walking by me right now

will all be dead  and soon.


bodies are the drama of our Earth

and I learn all your lines


changing settings each day and night

to set the table for

celebrating the dead of bodily concern

but each person has the right to be opaque

and today I choose to pray to the god of my mother


how on Earth did the sun find its way home bc I can’t find my keys again.


Sometimes perception is reality. When it comes to mental health it can overpaint any picture, layering coat after coat of vibrant colors that distort the image, enhance the image, destroy the image, agitate the image, support the image. Mood disordering has ordered my poetry and life and I am both happy and angry about it all at all times. The complex layers cake on the canvas and I try my best to sift the abstract into a semblance of a narrative in both art and in navigating the world. Women are the thread that keeps my partial sanity woven together and matted to my chest. Community breads restoration-let’s connect and build in chaotic unison.

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Feminem was born in Queens to hippie parents, given a dose of Shel Silverstein, Tupac, Jazz and classic rock. She was the recipient of a Posse Scholarship, and nominated for the Daily News Unsung Hero in Education. Feminem taught in Indonesia on a Fulbright scholarship, the Bronx through Teach for America and co-founded a school for students in foster care. She received a master’s in English Education, Educational Leadership and completed her MFA at the University of San Francisco. Feminem has been a slam winner at Nuyorican’s Poets Café, Bowery Poetry Club, Lehigh Valley intercollege slam, and Ubud writer’s festival. She’s won slam competitions at Nuyorican’s Poets Café, Bowery Poetry Club and Ubud Writer’s festival. She’s a Jack Straw Cultural Center Writing fellow and is published in New American Writing, Sinister Wisdom, Lavender Review, Quiet Lightning, and Juked.

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