by Juliet Cook and j/j hastain
Everyone decomposes in the end,
so you might as well turn yourself in
to a tree with leaves that will drop
in different directions. Skinny, malformed
branches that will break. One dark red
leaf might transform into a wing.
Then you can fly to heaven or
some other skyward plaza.
You can grow an above ground garden
brimming with skyrocketing bees
who don’t adhere to one particular hive
but whose material production
adds sticky and glow to the sun going
down every crater in order to create
another bloody moon.
Imagine two red eggs joining
forces with twin sectors.
Dripping specters with celestial organs
who might be sinners or saints or
self-created spirits. The wings that emerge
from inside you shoot out cataclysmic
meteor-like orgasms better than any catechism
taught in old-fashioned Sunday school class.
Every day of the week is filled with demons that grow
into erectile art. Now the only question left to reconcile?
Where to hang the meat hooks and watch petals bloom from the rot.
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.