Juliet Cook, and j/j hastain

SPRING FUNK

Combustion engine filled
with centipede legs
grows into a liquid flame.
Running fast, connecting
underneath the hair nets.

Later, lifting the ladies hats 
we see what might
fly out of their brains: fodder
or resource to cast
future spells.

 

Brains rise up
into new cloud formations.

 

Gods eyelids move like a sand 
mandala with an assortment
of mandibles in the middle,
also cat’s eyes and cow pelts
the shape of an impending tornado,
a bardo made of lace
with lightning streaks
dangling over the edge
where a lake used to be.

 

Now it has been emptied
to become a bed 
where different rare insects live
and breath inside pillowcases.

 

These pillow shams
shimmy and shake until 
something explodes
and makes a new Big Bang.

 

Shaped like a boa constrictor
with a smaller snake inside
that needs to break
out of ouroboros mythos
and crack the Botox myths too. 

 

Off with their heads or
at least un-straighten them,
contort them, turn them
closer to Devil Pod size.

 

Watch as they bobble
on your dash board 
until you crave a pitch fork
and devil’s food cake
to smear across the horizon,
to meddle the edges of
light. We are at all moments trying for 
inertia or a replacement therapy 
so that the bulbs continue
to burst out our eyes.

 

WHERE IS YOUR PET?

Too many people define themselves by their relationship
with another human or a pet or
with a human pet.
Then after that human pet stops
gasping for breath,
on to the next one!

 

She hadn’t yet grown tired
of talking to herself
as she put each animal down.

 

One after the other those which came
in tagged
along with their owners
or those who found their way to her on
their own because they wanted a new face
or a voice that seemed to care.

 

He wanted his own space inside her
even if it was the size of a gumball machine.
He wanted her to guess what he kept inside himself.

He wanted her to like him and chew his gum.
Or any other part of his orbit. She did not
want to put him down.
She just wanted to insert him
into the glass. She heard
pin balls cracking puns in the Everglades.


He was razed from a coaster
to a lovely young man trained
in chivalry and karma clearing.
This required him to stop ejaculatin
in doggy bags and find out how|
to unleash himself when the moment was right.

 

But whose moment?
At the risk of who else’s life?
Yours mine and ours, of course.

Some he’s are the pits in regard to
places in them that bear no
pearls. Some she-creatures
have small piranhas inside
their mouths and need
to train their inherited mouth-pieces

to not bite their own tongues

into tiny bones, but to bite off
the tongue of any he-man
who sticks his tongue in without asking.

 

Some gumball machines
crack the whip on all
manner of aces
acres and agenda

falling headfirst or flailing
in the breeze
until they wind up
inside the water.

 

Stick to the hair at the bottom of the sea.
Eat without a care in the world.
Make their own new pets
inside the wet depths.

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.

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 atwww.JulietCook.weebly.com.