Danielle Bero

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

 

melting chocolate on the double boiler pots

but the flame curdles the sweetness

into burnt streaks

striations in the foundation of the sauce

 

imagine

 

just imagine, if non-kids genderlessly still imagined


 

The Farmer in the Dell

 

Enjoy girls.

Enjoy, girls.

Scissors

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

scissoring

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

physical

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

fixings.

 

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

empty

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

naturally

 

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

opaquely

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

skyf

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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danielle-bero

Danielle Bero 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. Danielle 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. Danielle 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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