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Juliet Cook


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I hear the blades whirring.
I hear the blades whirring.

Horripilation all over my inner thighs.
The area the depilatory missed.
Depilation failure even in the midst of my
chemical stench my meat stench lingers.

An electric carving knife. A helicopter
coming to abduct me. Dangling a meat hook
instead of a lifeline. I hear the blades

say a meat hook is my lifeline.

Meat Chorus

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Whereupon a fleshy arrangement of sex-hungry
cellists descends upon me with their special techniques.

Straddled and packaged into cello sleeves.

I'm not a fembot. I'm not a product
like bite size sausage sliding out of cellophane sheath.
What might look like a novelty whip

is my succulent violin string warping the wood
of the cutting board. On the swinger party floor,
another instrument is the flute sculpted out of baloney.

Another greased up kisser
coming at my mouthpiece.


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What do you get when you mix one woman's narcissistic
personality disorder with 3000 pounds of thrust?
If you insert a hot baked apple dumpling into the crotch
panel of a pair of black pantyhose and swing? Ladyfingers
crawl out the holes in their heads and festoon the whole
room with cheesy frosting. She never liked the sour cream
layer on her bite size cheesecake. She looked so dis-
embodied after waxing. The hideous heft of her naked
white quivering goiter or was that another giant egg?


She never liked the way they seeped before she
cracked them open on the edge. She looked so dis-
enchanted when they all started crawling away.
A steamy latte is the sign of a typical teen. Paper doll
body w/ carrier pigeon wings. Meanwhile her coffee is cold
fusion oviduction with end result voluptuous prostheses.
They don't want any of those dregs going down their throats.
She packs a lunch: thermos full of raw wieners and the little slot
in the lunch box is a gingerbread girl in a confessional booth.


One mantra could be "treat not treatise", except it's not
menacing enough for she who was born in a claw machine
lined with stuffed tripe. Maybe if she lost half her body
weight, she'd stop laying eggs and spitting hungry lice.
"Having mouthparts adapted for sucking" sounded good
to them until she actually started sucking. She looked so dis-
ingenuous when their steamy filling was drooling out of her
elongated tart. It's what's inside that counts. Under her dress,
that gingerbread girl is praying mantis mandibles under duress.

Vibrating Mascara Wand

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I clambered out of bed and headed downstairs for a drink. Halfway down, I heard the whirring in the kitchen, which grew louder, the closer I got to the bottom.

I turned into the kitchen and there was a drill on the kitchen counter, plugged into the same outlet as the coffeemaker, with the drill bit whirring, although nobody was pushing the handle. And for that matter, nobody had plugged it in, because we had been upstairs sleeping. The cake mix cupboard was open.

Aside from the gaping cake mix cupboard, I was too addled to categorize the disorder. The whirring drill bit scared me and I ran back upstairs, climbed back into bed, pulled the covers tightly around me, and tried to pretend it had never happened. With the covers pulled over my ears, I couldn't hear the whirring. I finally forgot all about it and fell back asleep.

I clambered out of bed and headed downstairs for a drink. I heard the whirring. I turned into the kitchen and there was a drill on the counter, plugged into the same outlet as the coffeemaker, even though nobody had plugged it in. Cupboard doors were wrested open. The door to the living room, which is usually open, was closed. A doorbell had been installed on the wall beside the closed living room door.

The doorbell glowed in the dark with an eerie flesh-colored light. The idea of pressing it was terrifying.

My Own Dark Pinky

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My dream was wrapped in gender cake
wearing sweet pink flesh tone mollification
until a bloody whirlpit overtook
that dream sequence. Misshapen love

crammed into wormpits. With no arms or legs,
drowned nuzzles collapsed like push pinned nozzles
drenched until warped. Broken pinball machine
mosh pit left alone when freezing.

A prick house left my broken holes.
With my lead poisoned muzzle jerked off,
I endlessly shivered into dark folds until
I wrapped myself into my own hand

painted chrysalis. Whispering deep inside
my head – I will not be a dunk tank anymore.
I will remove my hard molds when I'm ready;
launch my handmade wingspan and rise myself up.

Sea Cradle Me

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prehensile tinsel induction
inside splintered sea urchin spines
through a blood drenched river

strangling sea girders I desire to turn
into hot pink open mouths
not dark ball gags gasping

don't drag me down   do breathe me in deep
cradle my depths   help me birth new breeds
of whirligigs with amniotic fuchsia writhing out

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