Poems by Juliet Cook & j/j hastain

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Habits Torn Off 

The nuns change color,

every definition of red. 

They dive out of quiet limbo
towards bloody sainthood. 

 

Some catch them as specter witches,

as a cosmic diagram 

 

cinched between

not only the belt

but what is below the belt.

A symbol that serves

as a representation 

of more impending torture. 

 

 

 

 

 

Real World Clouds

 

You start blurting out the word marriage and 
this is when the scorpions emerge from my sockets
as if they think my eyes deserve to be placed into lockets
whether or not I can see for myself. I can,

 

by the way

see myself for the first time
floating out of your fingernails,

no matter what color nail polish

you have applied. For this job you have to change

your nail polish color by the hour.

Use the callouses on your hands to steer

invisible clouds and then give birth

to your own cloud with your middle finger.

 

 

 

 

 

New Spa Treatment Spawning

Spinal column evolution.
We are spinning
a web with fragments of Indra's net.

Swerves entranced by wine,
nerves enhanced into twine.

Insects crawl out of the ink

jets and into the spa where we are making

out. The water turns into brine and then

we get kicked out again

 

by the sudden turbulences of the ocean 

uninvited, like a sharp rock 

stuck inside a birth canal.

 

Like a lesion on an ear

of corn until the corn pops

out of our ears.

 

 

 

 

From Nonexistent to Bloody

 

1.


They leave very little evidence 
of hatching because 
they don't want you to know 

they exist. 

Or maybe they don't exist
or maybe they never hatched.
I can't remember
how long the egg case
has been there.

 

Maybe nobody cares.

Maybe some of you will change

your minds when they eat your fingers off

and replace them with another

contorted case of the unknown. 

 

I can see no better way 

to remember Halloween

than fingering the fascia 

until the organ music drips

a tiny waterfall of baby serpents. 

 

2.

 

They leave a bloody spew

of goulash, a stew food fetish.
I can't decide if this is one

of my syndromes.

 

Or maybe it is a palindrome.

Say the mess backward and forward and see 
how many skeletal fragments conjoin

and then get ripped apart
until they excrete new reproductive devises

 

to which we have to respond

by bringing them to our next doctor's appointment

or the local concert where we are washing out

our menstrual cups.

 

(continued on next page, with new stanza)

(continued from previous page, new stanza) 

 

Lay them 

at the foot of the stage

or the foot of the male 

doctor with such a bushy beard.

Then begin screaming, "I'm not your blushing bride!",

while hurling red blood clots in front of the male gaze.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Juliet Cook is a grotesque glitter witch medusa hybrid brimming with black, grey, silver, purple, and dark red explosions. Her poetry has appeared in a peculiar multitude of literary publications. You can find out more at www.JulietCook.weebly.com.
 

j/j hastain is a collaborator, writer and maker of things. j/j performs ceremonial gore. Chasing and courting the animate and potentially enlivening decay that exists between seer and singer, j/j, simply, hopes to make the god/dess of stone moan and nod deeply through the waxing and waning seasons of the moon.

 

 

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