Matina L. Stamatakis
(with KJP Garcia)
– kept aside
while sweeping from cell
driven back to center
-clarified edges exposed
as indefatigable limitations
* * *
of infinite spaces
rapt in lush circuitry
in the tumult
* * *
for every longing
evolution / sin / violence
purity + deeds
* * *
[a doomed conception]
of alien sentience ─
throat spilling-out accursed
ejectamenta (im)pulse, a quiver
* * *
:all – foreign to imminent
of thrust – throb – set
aside with missteps
of speech yet to attain (a)trophied silence
* * *
incommunicable language ─ exasperating
shape of open
mouths─ illusion’s desperate
trigonometry // a priori: as tongue, refracted
[un]wavering crux, thus Being
* * *
humble rivets – know trivial confusion for slack of steel
. time bends light with/in gravity’s tru(e)st
stains are false brands stubborn – undisturbed by wash and play
= only age (befri)ends ultimate options
e +/- legibility
* * *
the mind’s errata,
cognition: a synaptic labyrinth ─disappears between
oceans of membrane [un]familiar portals in a dream
mechanized & extraterrestrial
only exists in/complete
* * *
nothing(ness) posesses an indisputable perfection
corridors are heavens between disconnective voids – space unto space
of emptiness is resemblance – in likeness is always an image cast
to describe is to steal details from abstract almosts
equal = equal – alone
all + one
together is own make up of parts formed from (a)maze[me(a)nt] to be
* * *
synthesis── needs flesh expect no answer ──depend on distances/instances
breathing tomorrow comes knowledge
& question rearranging patterns of usual places
displaced in con/text + elements + soft texture
obscured [by] teeth
sensors behind senses
sense[less] // structures set up to collapse
* * *
what detach meant was to say – give it time. and it is standing in for what?
it detache(s/d) from meaning, past occurrence, infinitives, speech
. in future’s tutorials examples, systems, and designs are ennobled unseen gases kept under bell jars filling in for(eign) core responses of familiarity disjointed observed
insistent upon bonds broken in death and half-life
* * *
a dimming beacon, this half-life, a cling to improbable senses wavelengths bodies
endless exploration of dire conditions─ volition, non-present & all the wilder, studying it
through liquid air, its immortality only a mortal mark on blue matter──dissolution, suddenly
emblazons it──aether disperses corporeal space, the observed half-life radiates a permanent
dystopia, detach//collapse: organs wild flowers malfunctioning & uncertain── wet
as nothing, nihil in its skin calls to speech through the bell jar, hollowed-out ghost-air
abyssal [ as endless] algorithms
* * *
inches gamed – gained
askew – a slant measured in available degrees
– misfired on demand – on target insides out –
by want – need – have – control is bought borrowed sold
echoes in chamber push other voices to sleep
phantoms sacrifice death in total for glimpse = mired in local conditions of
staying housed/coursed where curving bells contain deviations derived from models
(A portion of this poem originally appeared in Barzakh)
Juliet Cook and j/j hastain
Like a bee moth with bloody honeycomb lips.
Whose mouth will you sting next?
Whose mouth will become your own
next sticky chrysalis space?
Behemoth please don’t
lose yourself while you are busy
trying to find yourself.
Don’t treat your stingers
like they’re tectonic plates.
You’re not the whole surface of the earth.
You hover buzz above the mainstream,
but why try to create a new ovicide?
Are you attempting to kill
your own pattern again?
When will you help yourself
understand not every protrusion turns
into a broken down strand of tainted
confidence in the hyoid coincidence?
Are you too busy chiding biology to notice
your disembodiment tear apart like
flayed digits? You used to be pretty
as a snap dragon until you snapped,
and repeatedly ripped yourself
into too many different pieces.
I’m an incomparable mess with exaggerated streaks.
How do I narrow this down? During weeks
of drought–during weeks
of downpour–weeks upon weeks of
inauguration of weakness. Why is my flesh
made like this? Is it made for this? I didn’t
sign up but it might be time
to excavate and rearrange the flock.
Here’s my latest signature. I am glowing the more and more
sheep I let into this
Sheep aren’t only a bridge, aren’t only
what to count in order
to get somewhere. When the moon is just right,
these sheep trigger out ectoplasm,
lots of different colors and
shapes, too many to count
unless we create a whole
different sort of order
reordering the borders while
wise men dream of dust bunnies
and other happenstance. Revamp
the squiggle dusters into ecstatic
elation, frenetic deviation
from the fur
or devotional pledges ensuring
Fury dangling on the edge,
purring at you to count
Why Lancelot? She asked
her other self
the one in the oculus
Why not a lion-sized lark
a lionized loincloth
chewing this month’s blood
in order to create sparkles
of bewitching lioness drips
as the creature learns to fly
When the full moon
is acting full out
in attempt at fulfilling
will you drink it
or will you pull out
the flying machete
and try to hit that moon
down? Because why try?
Why attempt flight?
It’s like the spasm of a clock
made out of milkweed
that might suddenly turn cuckoo
and then drip down thighs
and crawl out the door
again. Screech as the glass
breaks. Great gallbladder
gonads in a rococo arrangement
with lip gloss on top
Disinfectant or Douche?
How do we engrave an orifice?
Burn a bible, a bundle,
an American flag.
Coagulate all the swag
down our throats and then
gag ourselves and spit it
down the drain and
grab the Lysol.
You know what we used to advertise
that Lysol for?
Cleaning off the stick of the plunger
Prepare for ocular penetration
and spray paint a ventricle
Blowtorch the entire panel,
turn the whole party scene
into burning whoopee cushions.
Quiet now: just experience that sound.
Entire Group Slides to One Soft Side
Turbulent taffeta explodes into
Turns the wheel
Until it sticks
Into the snow
Leaving you to wonder
Will it sink
Will it melt
Will it grow
More wet confetti
More topaz along the lone river
Where tides push and pull
Where whitewater vibes
Where the wet suit strives
To pop out eggs
The shape of staves
Because large sacs
And vertical hives
Are buzzing in between
Like the spots within
A large piece of
Moon shaped pie
Hole craters reconstructed
With icing jags
Jugs full of lag time
and the heavy breasts
that memory-less men
now drag around
the floor like protruding,
misshapen ball gags
Tall and unforeseen
the whole room groaning
like a mutant pinball machine
Entire group slides to one soft side
a way to be free of plagiarizing a wave
After the slow dance, some of them turn into ghosts,
some into cheerleaders, some into mixed up bags
of more taffeta. Just try to dive bomb that.
The healing potion explodes
We were seeking
in other words the
full of worms
the groom of
a returning blood flow
brimming with another line up
marooned brain waves
Replicate life force
The new cave?
Is the place in which you are engaged
full to you? Or are you another never
ending cascade? Bright red, dark red.
One side a positive
One side a negative
Never ending hemorrhaging hemisphere. Never
Juliet Cook: Oftentimes instead of attempting to express my shifting, mixed up viewpoints with straightforward words, I do so with poetry and visual art (like painting/collage art hybrids) and then let others interpret it how they will. I am often very uncertain about how others interpret my body and mind; likewise, I am often uncertain about how others interpret my poetry/art.
Bird fetuses, other carcasses, abandoned flesh, used flesh, abused flesh, relationship issues, body based issues, and fear of death often infiltrate my mind in one way or another – and much of my poetry and art helps me express those infiltrations rather than repress them. I love creative expression, but sometimes post expression, I feel like my content might be overly repetitive about myself, mind/body, life/death and what is the point of it all.
j/j hastain: Word-based: Words are more than language to me. They are little bolts, jolts of light, symbols and systems capable of enabling. Words are ways to make little worlds in which resounding can occur. Words are matter by which to graft new forms of environment and safe space. I depend on words in so many ways. They are access to so much vibrating excess. They are how an intuition becomes a speaking image, a realm.
Body-based: I have synesthesia. Often sound and sight (image) exchange. There are other modalities too: color and vibration. How to articulate experience then? When I read and swallow in words, sentences, I often feel a buzzing just outside of the frame of my physical body, sort of like standing by a loud speaker as intense music blasts at a dance club.
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, Menacing Hedge, Mojave River Review and Tarpaulin Sky Press. You can find out more at http://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.