Juliet Cook is a grotesque glitter witch medusa hybrid brimming with black, grey, silver and purple explosions. Her poetry has appeared in a peculiar multitude of literary publications, most recently including Arsenic Lobster, Diode, ILK Journal, Menacing Hedge, and Tarpaulin Sky Press. 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.
Where does it lead?
The snow globe explodes into my eyes
and then nooses me up.
I’m unsure if this is a hanging or
another sadistic experiment.
No matter what, it’s dripping blood
down the bedroom floor.
I can’t see anymore.
I can hear more vigorous dripping
in between my walls or
my thighs are another wall and
I’m Saint Bloody.
Welcome to my brains latest torture seen.
Broken Baby Bird Mouth
I didn’t force myself into you.
I popped myself out, morphed into my own
way of thinking. I found my direction
so stop inundating me with your questions,
with your why why why why why.
Because maybe I want to.
Because maybe it feels high today.
Because even if I’m not sure why, even if
my mind breaks down tomorrow, it’s still attached to me.
Because maybe maybe maybe maybe maybe.
Maybe I’m a witch bird with one broken wing.
You want to break off my other one and stick it in
your box of right and wrong and tell me
what I should do and who I should be.
Maybe I only have one eye left and you
can hardly wait to cut it off,
sew something different inside
my ripped hole, teach me another lesson
for everything I’ve done with my empty sockets.
Create me anew, the way you want me to be
instead of letting me be
my own contorted self.
You say, “If you can’t see straight,
I think it’s better if you can’t even see.”
Not another Replication
He paints Bloody Mary’s
but won’t drink them.
I need to keep drinking red glass
after glass so my love doesn’t turn into mildew.
I say let’s keep spinning, don’t mold my circles
with any particular slab. I know how they break,
crack open, dry out, and get replaced by
a soft new color, wet in the folds between
delight and desecration. Stay away from
those gardening tools. Suck in your paint.
Pour every color down my throat
and all over my face.
Eric Doce is a philosophy graduate school drop out, compiling his forthcoming book “Son, Shower” (a collection of drawn collages and poems, 2011-2014). He lives in Brooklyn, with his gun.
I spied the laughing din of perennials
Scatter hummingbirds skyward, anchoring
My gabbling catmint, sea-holly cloaks.
Medusa’s intestines crown my face.
I spied anorthosite worlds wherein skin
Pumices; her cellar of petrologists.
I spark a millstone in the brush with flint,
Though the flowers, incanting, have sigils
Too soaked, to stoke, in mouthless laughter.
Dart and bob the water’s rim.
Well-oiled machines furrow the oil well.
I think, gargles the brim,
Plumed air we take in and spend.
A memory of box-comb bees rolling
As we siphon their smoke, again.
The inks of Lascaux light our sober ceiling
Unframed, omens drop
After a pregnant month.
As earth rolls a steady boil.
Living under moss
Turns the outside
Earth unworthy of
Your days’, and nights’,
And hours’ ears,
Until your dankness
Suckles scavenger flies,
And merry families
Of heady fungi
Revisit your toxins
To our dulled,
Peter Burzynski is a first-year PhD student in Creative Writing-Poetry at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee. He holds a B.A. from the University of Wisconsin-Madison, a M.F.A. in Poetry from The New School University, and a M.A. in Polish Literature from Columbia University. In between his studies, he has worked as a Sous-Chef in New York City and Milwaukee. Peter’s poetry has appeared on The Best American Poetry, Kritya, and Bar None Group websites, as well as in the Fuck Poems Anthology. He has poems forthcoming from BORT quarterly and the Great Lakes Review.
If I were a woman
forged of tin, smote
in an oven with hair
of barbs and toes
of hinge, I would
want a parasol.
Here is the river,
here is the sun,
tell me you feel
me, love. I can tell
that I’m late
I guess that’s why
You Have Teeth, Too
Sunsets are a moot point
in the schedule. They bear
the weight of tube-hearted
trombones and yet still falter
through puddles. Collections
of marred concrete, rubber
bones, cracker-thin placard—
you call them home. You left.
You spat tin into our garden—
a brass furnace. Heard bluebirds
cracking. We’d sing broken
heartedness to the stars,
measure the consistency
of our bones. Skin is pricey.
You had filled our world:
every petunia a parabola,
each house key a colossus,
a scarf a sarcophagus, every
telephone a thunderstorm.
Now it’s empty—deflated
of the last blips, of memory,
dregs of sunlight, of our star.