Peristalsing Pistil
Maybe some people just don't want to see
all the different depths inside me.
I don't want to squish myself, but I'm creepy.
As in I creep and slink along,
a way of towing the line
when the line is so long
and I want to create my own song
and I want to create my own formula
for spontaneous combustion being drawn out in a longform
tirade until my fingers finally turn
into sky shoes or slushies,
shea butter bulbs sprouting up from
fallow winter ground,
to create angry edible snow creatures
who are somehow running the show uninvited,
as if aiming to destroy more than half
of the percolators in town.
As if aiming without aiming.
As if maiming the grounds
keeper and then piling up the pulp of internal
systems,
dyeing them
then trying to sell them to the highest
bidder on the black market.
This market will collect us all
into snow globes,
until we freeze our asses off
in the middle of summer
and our poppies drip
through the glass.
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, 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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