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YES FEMMES is an online experiment that publishes writing and digital projects working toward a femme aesthetic. We're interested in writing that explores the limits of the body, that's campy or fannish, that engages with witchcraft or the occult, that has an excess of feeling, that looks to animals and plants as models or collaborators, that considers how digitality might be femme, and that moves toward the horizon of queerness. We plan to publish irregularly, according to our feelings, the cycles of the moon, and other factors.

YES FEMMES was conceived of first as a reading series by Sam Cohen and Gina Abelkop, while they were floating together in the ocean off the coast of a Malibu beach. Its digital iteration is made in northeast Los Angeles, edited by Sam Cohen and designed by Sandra Rosales.

Submissions, pitches, and inquiries at yesfemmes@gmail.com.

Milk Toast
JD Scott

Too broke to be the money shot

Too high-horsed to be on bottom

Clipping coupons is very hard when you wear a velvet glove

over a velvet fist

In the abattoir I continue to punish men

Open them up with speculums and pour the cream in

Most men don’t want to be broken in like a pair of Jimmy Choos

They just ask for pralines

Pass the dacquoise too

There is a recipe for getting a seat at the dinner party of men:

walk the desert for forty days—mannaless—

bring your own chair built from the spines of suitors

I did

I swiped silverware where I could and carried spoons

inside my imposter mouth

Once you sit long enough with your hands in your lap they’ll think you’ve paid your dues

That’s when you can make your downlow femme moves

At the table I roll smoked salmon up with dirty fingers and shove it in

At the table I grow small and parade across the cloth like an airdancer

Prance paralian into the tea cup which I infuse with my body as Jacuzzi

Then I grow big as a grizzly

knock the roast duck against the fireplace mantle

Knickknacks, monstrance, my own monstrous countenance

screaming in the center of the room

Ah!   Have you ever seen such a temper-tantrum?

Me the hikikomori entering the crowded company of men

Swarming

Out from my pores comes forth antisocial yeast

Saline tears sloshing against locked doors

Men soaked in my beastly oils

My flours

Men sugared and sweetened by the ingredients that leak

Like a heater bee I vibrate and give off fire

Like a heifer I spurt moo juice onto the bread-bodies

Yes     That’s me on the nightly news

with my disguise removed

shouting past subterfuge

about entitlement and fakery

Yes     That cannibal’s me

beating through the boy’s club

eating their candymasc flesh

Yes     I transformed them all    into human desserts

I thought you knew     that’s why they call me     the human bakery.

JD Scott is the author of two chapbooks: FUNERALS & THRONES (Birds of Lace Press, 2013) and Night Errands (YellowJacket Press, 2012). Recent and forthcoming publications include Best American Experimental Writing, Prairie Schooner, Salt Hill, The Pinch, Sonora Review, The Atlas Review, Powder Keg, Apogee, Winter Tangerine, and elsewhere. More of JD can be found at jdscott.com.