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


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.


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.

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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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