Gibson Girl Power, by Em Dick-in-Son

I want to be scathing 

and not like other girls.

I watch their brains unravel

into teleprompter scripts

allegedly this and 

supposedly that and

I’m so jaded after years of this.

You should know, up front,

I was put on a blacklist,

but that only proves my point.

I received bad ratings 

for fisting myself with a man’s hand 

while I was on air.

YOU’RE FIRED,

a finger-wagging Trump condemns me

over and over on a screen.

Chads and rose boys 

lost their pants and minds.

It’s all subversive pantomime.

And I’m just so controversial,

aren’t I?

Sure, I’ll perform that, too.

I value my looks over hers,

which I don’t value at all.

Her brain is dead to me,

face decaying now,

a nauseating sight to see 

even in Hell.

And for everyone’s sake,

stop dressing like you’re twelve.

Smear my clit and cum

all over your grownup mouth.

Bemoan me as a mean girl 

while I’m looking down

and choking you with your own hair;

that’s my dirty little nasty woman.

But most of them are prudes

I can’t believe your tone!

I can’t believe how rude!

Girls support girls, don’t you know?

Ah, you must be the Victorian pacifist

I’ve heard so much about,

who slapped her wrists,

hushing her into shape.

Shut up, little miss.

Stand in line, please,

of our propaganda passiveness,

so we don’t get swallowed 

by the patriarchal abyss

[redacted bad slam poem]

Reader, I cancelled it.