Saturday, August 30, 2008
Featured Poet: Juliet Cook
"Juliet Cook is a poet and the editor of Blood Pudding Press. A few of her recent publication credits include ‘DIAGRAM’, ‘OCTOPUS’, ‘Spooky Boyfriend’, ‘Taiga’ and ‘blossombones’. Some of her print chapbooks can be acquired via www.BloodPuddingPress.etsy.com
. Her first e-chapbook, ‘Projectile Vomit’, is forthcoming from Scantily Clad Press—and another print chapbook, ‘Gingerbread Girl’ is forthcoming from Trainwreck Press. Her first full-length book is slinking around, mewling and hissing and seeking a peculiar home."
SLUMBER PARTY SCANDAL
1. cheerleader/lawnmower mishap
she used to be a cheerleader now she’s a gimp
dragging that past behind her like some parasitic umbilicus disguised with pink nail polish
dragging that hacked-up left leg behind her like some pep rally back of skirt menstrual blood blurt
phantom limb of a split jump off that human pyramid period in which his fingers slid
into her panties as she tried to keep her balance on the top
feeling like some tainted christmas tree angel burnt cookies
slimy salt lick when they were expecting a sugar cube trail
(in the dreams the girls are dogs with coagulated fur and blood-stained nails
straining against choke collars baring their teeth barking at her
in the dreams his fingers are blades at first she thought the girls were barking
CUT HER! like a threat but they were really barking CUTTER!
like an accusation as if she sucked his fingers in there on purpose
with her whirring underside with the burning rubber of her flesh)
now it’s gingerbread house crashing and all the other girls at the slumber party
neatly file to the restroom to purge the pieces of her out of their aerosol halos
even their vomiting is petite saccharine sweet a hushed chorus
of whispered secrets she wears the smallest bra she doesn’t know how to use tampons
her golden brown tan is fake she doesn’t even know how to put on the brakes
she slips some nail polish remover into the lemon cupcakes
To a Modern Dance Soundtrack
Another ballerina malfunctions and her pointe shoes send shards
of pink shrapnel into the crowd.
Her toes couldn’t take the pressure.
Our voyeuristic vitreous humor streams
down cheeks, soaks the plush velvet
of theater seats until we are sitting on red sponges,
gumming soggy popcorn, no longer able to see
her suppurating stumps,
her sequined tantrum—
puppet strings jerking mutant limbs.
A pervert’s eyeballs pop like a soft atomizer squeeze
& the whole auditorium fills with the aroma
of wormy cheese. Her phalanges twitch
every which way. Little sausages splitting
out of casings. Recombining in different forms.
Recombinant DNA, gene splicing, string theory,
finger sandwiches dangling from tiny nooses,
fingering of crumbs from puckering eyeholes.
During intermission we will be fitted with our 3-D glass eyes
and mind boggling electrodes. The better to watch her die.
How did that sticky gaggle grope its way out
of its crimped-tight packaging?
Don’t they know they can’t escape
the hue of artificial fruit and spoiled milk?
Just who do they think they are,
getting carried away in this queasiness-inducing parade:
Circus Peanuts with centipede legs,
Circus Peanuts with tiny fright wigs,
Circus Peanuts in heat, trying to mate
with the crayfish of the murky creek bed,
with the sickly sweet roil of fake banana etouffee.
Is that a banana in your pocket or are you just
smuggling a Circus Peanut injected with human
growth hormone? Are you linked to the black
market trade of glowing Circus Peanut Fetal Pigs,
planted into the bellies of Visible Woman Model Kits
(with Pregnancy Option included) so that grade school kids
can pluck them out and practice a new breed of dissection?
Scythe off their ooey gooey heads—
so chewy, so plush, so stuck between
teeth like a sugary snuff.
How does that taste, little girl?
Like a squishy orange polliwog bluff,
they keep giggling and squiggling in
increasingly iffy incarnations,
growing too legion for the ranks of transparent anatomically correct
female abdomens. Now we’re substituting Visible Horse Anatomy
Model Kits or Transparent Roswell Alien Models for the pregnant women.
Just who do these in utero mutations think they are,
or maybe it’s the conniving uteri themselves, popping out
Circus Peanuts with nipple clamps and decorative ruching
or are those surgical incision scars?
Circus Peanuts with club feet and tiny crutches
or are they Circus Peanuts AS tiny crutches?
Either way, we can’t risk a Circus Peanut insurgency.
This Circus Peanut infestation must be stopped.
Do you want Circus Peanuts leaving their gelatin droppings
inside your designer high-heeled shoes?
Do you want to give birth to a slime-encased Circus Peanut,
then be tempted to cannibalize that malformed marshmallow fluff?
Do you want to turn into a fat orange frump,
a sugar-laden shapeless blob,
a cheap candy nightmare spawn
with engorged Circus Peanuts where your heart belongs?