PRINCE DIED FOR FEM BOYS, by Cyree Jarelle Johnson

Cyree Jarelle Johnson is an essayist, poet, and librarian from Piscataway, New Jersey. They are a Poetry Editor at The Deaf Poets Society, Managing Editor at Transfaith, and a candidate for an MFA in Poetry at Columbia University.

photo credit: Nicole Myles, 2016

Castration Sonnet w/ Bruce LaBruce Cameo

Honest fascist in my bed, I got railed
and I loved it! Cock sandpapered naked
stubble spines jut through me. Take It! Take It!
stuttered. I suck. He tried to hold it. Failed.
Tore out a hole in my silk boxer briefs
fast-knuckle fisting, dubious relief.
$500 snatched out his sock drawer;
memory makes me want to fuck him raw.
California king. Gold-plated cock ring
torture. You torture-teach rhetorically.
roughshod depression when you don’t call me:
swollen holes engorge to turgid bursting.
America left me wet for this tryst,
Christ! Another Fist! PLEASE! ANOTHER FIST!

Prince Died for Fem Boys

I said I only want to fuck the taste out of your mouth
& I meant it as a furnace. I meant burn manhood
down in button up crop tops. I mean burn it down
H  O  U  S  E  Q  U  A  K  E like angering Prince as aunty
the one with money & two separate couch sets.
The one in the front room & its flecks of floral sweats
choked in plastic. It squeezes my ass, bites my thighs
stinging nettles, but it’s hers so I must comply.
She glides in on her icy boundaries, says the plastic
one is for company
. Family is a kind of company.
Manhood: the dirty fingers sliding into our plotted
eternity. I’ll burn every uncovered couch set for you
my prince, my aunt, my queen. When I find it I will
kill manhood with fire — it is a tick that poisons
our infinity. Purposeless, nasty, & cruel. Faggotry
is the way to nurture the fire. Faggotry is also the way
to snuff the fire to the steam of memory. Even
a tick has purpose — to be devoured by peacocked
majestics beating their oiled wings to miraculous flight
& we are still fucking. Still thinking of fem prince-
liness coronated by queenliness. Crown placed, sword
sworn by auntie. Watching ticks pop on the match.

Temple Grandin is a Goddamn Slaughterhouse

childhood parhelion
in sliding glass door
popped out the groove

audible halo of ice
marring shoulders
of loved wunderkind

adult nose picker
violet velvet; all fringe
element. mythologized
schoolhouse fifth column

never never beloved
anachronist & orphan
pigeon wings. this poem

is a discourse on blue
whales. as if. as ever.
as is everything.


wi. ld. nb. id.
nig. gas. wan. na. try. me.
say. they. can. not. find. me.
in. the. dic.
tion. ary.