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I just want a detachable, screw-on, disposable dildo [...] by Walker James

I just want a detachable, screw-on, disposable dildo instead of this non-detachable, non-screw on, non-disposable penis.


I was on the toilet, doomscrolling, 

when the Tweets crammed 

together, and I 

wanted – suddenly, again - to grab 

a kitchen knife, shuck 

and saw away at this pink 

thing, tear it from the mulch 

like purslane, my green thumb 

bloodied and shining red light. 

I’d rush myself to Regions Hospital, 

a few blocks away, past the overpass,

and pause, in traffic, to toss my dick 

onto the train tracks – maybe I would

tie it to the rail and dress it in a wig. 

I would probably live long enough 

to twirl my mustache, cackling, 

bleeding my first period all over

the sand and steel. 

No need, then, for a psychiatrist 

to declare me officially anything. 

No need, then, for an identification, 

a gender journey described and 

outlined in the court of medicine. 

No need to admit anything to 

family, doctors, co-workers

by-lines, the government, 

HealthPartners or boyfriends. 

Just: “I accidentally cut the 

dick off and became.”

Just: “All of a sudden, the dick

was squirming on the tiled floor, 

blood blooming like nuclei, my boneless

pink alien, my Achilles fatty tissue.”

I’d say: “My mother held me 

by the dick when she dipped

my infancy in the Styx.”

I’d say: “Fundamentally, I want it

sealed in a mason jar, locked in a bank 

vault, Wells Fargo sunken into the Sahara

like the tombs of kings my ancestors built.”

I’d say: “It’s phallocentric until Martian archeologists 

discover my dick and display its ruined leather

in a museum on the Moon with a little plaque 

that reads unidentified genitalia of unknown origin

and unknown purpose.” 

Until they carbon date my dick, proving 

it existed sometime this millennium, 

excuse me while I enjoy

legroom and pressing tulips 

into books this afternoon, 

watching my catheter slowly

fill with urine, the small burning

of Testogel, waiting for USPS

to deliver my new

                        hot pink dildo right

                   to my doorstep.



Walker James is a Queer poet living in Saint Paul, MN, with a cat. They have been published in Haute Dish, Rag Mag Revival, The Daily Drunk, random sample review and have work forthcoming in Stone of Madness and Versification. They have also been published in their own small hearts. Follow them on Twitter @fscottnaruto1. 


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