Reparative HERstory #1
Reparative HERstory #2
Poem #1
A Poem Was Being Written #1
A Poem Was Being Written #2
Adrienne Rich Refuses
Writing on Art #1
Kevin James
No Tears for Dead Soldiers, 1998
I am a masochist only in poems

Rose McGowan: Utopia
Emotional Labour
Our bodies are their language
sister, sensibility
Women's Bodies


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I am a masochist only in poems

Valerie Solanas laces up her black boots and hands a sledgehammer to Sylvia Rivera.

They are ready to smash the patriarchy.

I am a self hating gay man who could care less about my own dick in most social situations, so Valerie and Sylvia read me as an acceptable recruit of SCUM.

Sylvia hands me a knife and I obey what is implied in her gesture by cutting off my testicles and placing them onto the concrete.

Valerie slams the hammer onto my balls and they shatter into a hundred pieces of broken glass and history.

I ask Sylvia if they make the same sound as the breaking of the molotov cocktails she and Marsha threw at Stonewall.

She says “no”.

I can’t even castrate myself in a way that impresses her.

They tell me to leave, and I manage to walk just far enough to die on the pavement outside of a bed and breakfast that used to be the Gay Men’s Health Crisis.


I cruise Gertrude Stein in an alley way and suck the dick of her large phallus and make her cum until my throat fills up with her seed and I choke on my own hero worship, gasping for air through the thick mucus that has accumulated at the back of my tonsils.

This is called playing with language.

Gertrude Stein tells me I am worthless. I am an awful poet, and I will never be like Oscar Wilde, who I must ashamedly emulate because I am a man.

This is expected because Oscar Wilde probably stole his writings from a woman he knew intimately, similar to William Shakespeare and Percy Bysshe Shelley.


All men are pointless, and I write this without the irony of reveling in my own mundane shit.