Juliet Cook – Poems


Dark Purple Spread Shot

The plums darken,
face the wall.

He makes you feel like nothing
you do is important.
Instead you should be taking sexy photos
of yourself for him,
let him inspect for more imperfections.

In his grading scale, you have nothing
better to do than stand, sit, lay, spread
and then snap.




When my computer crashed, I thought I had lost so many details of myself
or at least seven years worth of me
stored on the computer he had bought me
and let me keep when our relationship died.

When my hard drive was restored, I found out I hadn’t lost
his rampant collection of hardcore porn videos
including woman after woman sucking dog dick.

We’re not in physical contact anymore.
His password had been forgotten for years.
The newly restored disk was all mine.

So why didn’t I just quickly delete it,
instead of spending hours clicking
scene after scene of naked, moaning females
letting dog dick drip down their lips, whole loads
of cameras flashing in the background.

Maybe our relationship wouldn’t have lasted unless
I started sucking dog dick in front of him
and didn’t want him to pay
and didn’t want him to work
and didn’t tell anyone else
about all the dog shit in our closet.




It’s easy to write about how tough you are
even if you are not. Even if you’re more
like a sob story inside a split
sapling, dripping down

and down
and farther down

still feeling young, but
getting older and wondering when

does the cervix drop down lower
as a body ages? Will it fall
out of the corpse into the casket?

What if you’re not buried into anything?



Root Rot

My clavicles are turning
into grim reapers inside me.
They want to pierce their way through
my own dying skin.

Sometimes I can’t ascertain my taste
buds and why they want
to rip out my seedy tongue.
Replace it with acidic marmalade vomit.

My whole body will be engulfed
by bitter oranges, rotting oleander
that still drips, an ongoing cataclysm of poison
flower bed abortion.



Dancing By Myself

If you don’t like my dance moves, I don’t give a fuck.
I don’t like the gym, I don’t like aerobics and
my main exercise routine at night involves
dancing by myself to loud music
that most people don’t like, visualizing myself
as a bizarre burlesque dancer spewing blood
out of my panties and into the invisible crowd.
Invisible or not, I’m invincible and bloody.

I can stand on an invisible stage reading one of my poems
and then there’s a guy on each side of me and when
I rip off my shirt and count 1, 2, 3 in between poems,
they each pierce a nipple so that blood drips down
while I read my next bloody poem and who cares
if the audience doesn’t want to see my real blood
dripping out of my mouth.  I’m dancing by myself
and nobody inside my head ever wants to leave.



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.


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