(not quite) a literary journal

Home

Cakeface and The Real Enemy, by KSwift

Cakeface

This room is hot,
hot:
you’re rolling between bodies, asking them to touch you
you’re letting them put brushes to your face.
Beautiful, you think.
How couldn’t I have seen
my masculine limitations!

Outside a cry for help is swallowed by glitter and loud music
and you think, how glorious for once,
Not
To give
A shit,
and you’re caught up in your drunken visage like the girl you and your friends teased in the sixth grade.
Cake face slut.
But you’re really sticking it to The Man now,
look,
mom,
I’m wearing eyeshadow,
Blahblahh fuck gender,
well, look.
In the morning when you wake, you can cluelessly scrub at your skin with hand soap until it’s red raw, thinking, holy fuck this shit really stays on there, well yes,
because the rest of us,
never hear applause.

The Real Enemy

Progressive men
owe me about $2 million in compensation
for their FEELINGS,
touchy feely bullshit,
intelligent,
WOKE,
theoretical men,
owe me and mine approximately
100 billion brain cells,
each,
and around ten times as much patience,
and about fifty times as much honesty
as they have given every femme they’ve so much as breathed at.
progressive
Men,
can suck my fucking dick.
I’ll take an apolitical man.
I’ll take a republican man,
I’ll take a conservative man or a machismo man or I’ll take
a democrat man,
a fucking sew rat,
anything,
but the reactionary self-indulgence
of a self-proclaimed
”ally”,
”progressive man”.

Tip Jar
image (2).png
jake buckholz