by Juliet Cook and j/j hastain I feel like applying my own
to this star,
when i don't know where i should throw what i feel the need to express. Should I pitch it all over the place or throw it away or alternate?
Does it matter?
stirs my ideas
into body parts that extend
beyond vertical and horizontal and the borders of reality intersect with the next
five course lap dance
from a yapping chihuahua
burned at the stake.
Strip steak witch legs.
Whiplash in bags
filled with sand and wind. A fire storm of seasoning until the skin burns off
and turns into a new music box
that I crawl inside and dance in
until I finally die.
by Juliet Cook and Michael Bernstein
Freezing, tripping landmines
in a brutal tandem of lack and hollow,
the eyes eaten out, the joy
voided in echoes of the ghost wail ad infinitum. The gibberish bleeding and spitting out ants
that turn into models. I'm talking runway models that bite more eyes into holes.
The exhibition staged in a black hole,
the pummel of raw gravity collapsing the catwalk
in a neutron slop, an implosion of logic,
slick and burning green and just because
the ghosts became ants doesn't mean
they can't turn red again and then grow
into the size of moray eels and steal
more life. Their crystalline fangs bear down,
existence itself rending to tatters in a slimy death roll,
fathoms deep, vocal chords flung into the underwater
mosh pit. The underworld ripe and ruined,
with magma oozing into another form
of monarchy. Monarch butterflies replicated
into leeches. Leech pits, leech festivals,
leech fairs in which the new Queen Leech
dissolves her progeny in a flurry of teeth,
the muck whirring furious and blind all around,
using more ripped off flesh to create dripping crowns of thorns with more suckling leeches dangling from the tops
of heads. A new form of crucifixion.
The vermin of all dawn has fallen down
into cataclysm. Like burning sewer water
siphoned out with giant syringes,
then shoved into the throats
of the remaining few who still try to speak
until their voices are singed into another side of silence.
Juliet Cook is a grotesque glitter witch medusa hybrid brimming with black, grey, silver, purple, and dark red explosions. She is drawn to poetry, abstract visual art, and other forms of expression. 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 hopes to make the god/dess of stone moan and nod deeply through the waxing and waning seasons of the moon. Michael Bernstein is an American writer and musician. His first proper collection of poems...this is an x-ray...was published by Writing Knights in 2017. He currently lives in Wisconsin.
Image by Dinah Sanders, found on Flickr: https://flic.kr/p/cKxmk