Emily Brandt, A Case for the Control of Guns in the Hands of Men

If HE, nor she, nor ze see, no matter.
I put my shirt backwards
for a reason not to be seem.
Shoulder pump shoulder thump hump:
I’m a BOY!

A slut/shaming BOY!
A homo(        !)
A punk in a porno!
A master of the elite occult order, de MEN ONLY!

You can’t tell
who’s in whose shoes
or what we am
when our first finger is triggered.

Miss Fashion wants
to be a MAN. She is (      ) a MAN!
She wants to bed the dragon.

Let’s buy a squash blossom
from the pueblo:
die as HEADS of the Cult
of Appropriate Appropriation

O Sicily, come home to me
come whore to me
come with bones for me. I
carve o carve the bones of
my cousins
my brethren
a chandelier of bones
a Lite-Brite skeleton!

Swing from the rafters:
O chariot O charisma
O P Q or rest your ex

your assault rifle registered
to the women of the world >
united by guns in their purses
gum not guns. No fun in guns!

Every day you die a tiny death.
Every morning you are bored.
The light of the sun can’t
stir you, you, you with your
gun hanging out your body
shame shame! And don’t you
want to shoot that thing!
Ready fire aim at chichi she!

Corpse pose time at BROga!
Part your lips! Put your
hands on your hips! Lie
down. Lie down. Let
the sun set. Let it set.
Let it settle. Start to wriggle.
Rest your jaw. Your trigger
finger. Feel that. That’s nice
right? Feel that. That’s called
NICE. Sit still for a little.
Sit still.Still sit. You’ve got
a lot of thinking to do.
You’ve got a lot of breathing
to do. You’ve got a lot of a lot
to do with a lot of things that do
not do a lot but heat the hot hot
heads of Bethlehem then dig
in your pocket for some change.