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Three Poems by KJP Garcia

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Three Poems

by

KJP Garcia

Stop By

Did you ring the doorbell?

This house is your house –

so to speak.

 

Open so long as you let yourself be heard.

But locks must be engaged, shutters closed

–there are some

that do harm –

 

Villains are not simply storylines, costumes, secret identities, powers

but will and win if not on guard

Feel free to come by, as (is) possible, you’ve come by before so unknown

So entrance was removed.

Time, this, as always will be different.

 

Afford

If on verge then do well to continue

Ceiling leaks, drops break in.

Mattress steals space from living.

 

And this teetering persists?

Make a go of it

– rest doesn’t go well

Fall, jump, get pushed

-expire-

afford a balance to repair’s value.

 

Which Side

Which side of the Hudson is for Verlaine

And which for Rimbaud after the break-up?

Not world enough / strong enough

to open petals

lay out

lyricism

illuminations

the way New York

can

with all the best pharmaceutical grade . . .

And two rivers and upstate to run to and Jersey

ready to back pocket

the written

on train out of here

to calm down.

 

So, Seine, which side is for Warhol and which for Basquiat

When done / decorated enough

to have back what is held close /

unwanted?

 

Poetic Statement: Experience is a plurality of convergences, interruptions, digressions, departures. These occurrences are the fragments which create larger memories and the narratives one attempts to convey to others. The closer one comes to examining the past, the more one notices how the present constantly interferes. The narratives one creates from the keepsakes of yesterday are shattered and forged again with new data – sensations, perceptions, insights, exemptions, the heard-words, the read-words, the thought-words, the dream-words, the images and ideas of having been inserted into a life of disturbances.

Bio: Kenyatta Jean-Paul Garcia is the author of This Sentimental Education, ROBOT and Yawning on the Sands.

Terrible Animals by Chris D’Errico

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Terrible Animals

by

Chris D’Errico

Terrible Animals by C.DERRICO

Bio: Chris D’Errico has worked as a short order cook, a doorman, a neon sign-maker’s helper, and an exterminator, among other vocational adventures. Born in Worcester, Massachusetts, he lives in Las Vegas, Nevada, with his wife Tracy, and a small clouder of house cats. For more, visit www.clderrico.com.”

SOURCE TEXT: “A Field Guide To Critical Thinking” by James W. Lett, from the book “The Hundredth Monkey And Other Paradigms of the Paranormal”… Filtered through insomnia  and nervous impulse. Inspired by Salvador Dalí’s description of his paranoiac-critical method: “a spontaneous method of irrational knowledge based on the critical and systematic objectivity of the associations and interpretations of delirious phenomena.”

Two Poems by Vimeesh Maniyur

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Two Poems

by

Vimeesh Maniyur

Lip

Long back

He was called for making Thajmahal

A good, dirty man with talents

He Went.

One day he saw the Emperor

Heard an unknown toungue

May be he was the first in kerala

Who heard that…

It is stone not a white sun

There were no friends

In work they spoke one

They were one lettered humans

kept stone  like his letters

That day he spoke to the king

In dream… in his stone realm..

The man of palaces didnt get his stone-lip

Beheaded that kingdom

Never cameback.

Saw his rustic speech in its silence

True, It is fear not whiteness

The white geometry

As always

I looked into my android

There came a white geometry

 

Here and there roads

Here and there malls

Here and there talkies,

Hospitals, banks, A T M,

Railway station, hotels, pubs,

Café, bars, bus stand…..

Nothing but a white – haunted piece

Of barren world.

Where is this one, the road?

Hospital? Schools? army camp? Small teashops?

Loitering goats and many more….

Are they too big to map?

 

I looked again

Where I am?

 

Bio:  is an established bi-lingual poet, novelist and translator from kerala, in India. He has two volumes of poetry and a children’s novel in his credit. He has also penned stories and dramas. He has bagged for many prestigious awards such as Culcutta Malayali Samajam Endownment, Madras Kerala Samajam, Muttathu Varkki Katha Puraskaram etc. for young writers in kerala.

The Parisians by AJ Kaufmann

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The Parisians

A Chapbook 

by AJ Kaufmann

Bio: I am a Polish poet and songwriter. I have been around the small-press poetry scene since 2008. “Siva in Rags” is my most recognized piece of work when it comes to English-language poetry, I think. I have been published in the USA (Kendra Steiner Editions mostly) and UK. My work has been also translated into Bulgarian, and I recorded and released 2 solo albums with self-penned songs. I also have a band.
Here are some links, where information about me can be found.

Faded by Matina L. Stamatakis (with KJP Garcia)

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Faded

by

Matina L. Stamatakis

(with KJP Garcia)

plancelled

– kept aside

while sweeping from cell

dispersions

driven back to center

-clarified edges exposed

as indefatigable limitations

* * *

envelope disorderliness

of infinite spaces

─ghost automatons

                                rapt in lush circuitry

─synapse

a refuge

                            in the tumult

* * *

for every longing

overdue

evolution             /              sin          /              violence

purity + deeds

(s)wearing

circumspect technology’s

                                introverted shame

* * *

                                                ─rising

through darkness

                                                                                                                                                 [a doomed conception]

of alien sentience ─

throat                                             spilling-out accursed

ejectamenta                        (im)pulse,  a quiver

* * *

                                over(t)ly

(e)motion

:all – foreign to imminent

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             choke down

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

by  birth’s
origin
[un]wavering crux, thus Being

* * *

humble rivets – know trivial confusion for slack of steel

.  time bends light with/in gravity’s tru(e)st

– accord.

stains are false brands stubborn – undisturbed by wash and play

= only age (befri)ends ultimate options

faded beyond

e                             +/-                          legibility

* * *
the mind’s errata,

                                cognition: a synaptic labyrinth                                    ─disappears between

oceans of membrane                                   [un]familiar portals  in a dream

mechanized & extraterrestrial

expresses incomprehensible
know/ledge

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)

The Lungfishes by Jesse Mitchell

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The Lungfishes

by

Jesse Mitchell

 

I. And the ice floe became endemic, because the water was cold

    And it was thin

    And it spread everywhere, all around.

    Standing in the backroom of a noisy petshop, waiting to drown,

    Imagining Cocteau, a film (a shimmer) on the storefront window

    Orpheus: Le Sang d’un Poete

    As the rain came down.

    Leaving dirty streaks in the dust, dusty streaks in the dirt.

II. And composition suggests death.

     The boundaries are set and they are smooth.

     The periphery is set and it  is smooth.

     It is a casket-aperture to let in the light,

     Because life needs random.

     Because vitality is chaos.

     And all we see are borders

     Fill them in, fill them in, we fill them in, fill them in.

III. And then it all gets old, it gets old

     And all you have left is bones and soul, bones and soul.

     The cars idling in the streets,

     The roar of engines

      The clouds of smoke.

IV.  “Greetings and welcome to Jaipur.”

      The bathroom smelled like soap, old ratfaced brown towel hung over the railing.

      All the way back to Earth, were lines, full spectrum  bright lines, like sunglare, lines streaking back.

      Trusting the burst behind them, the rushing crushing transfer of light, the blur between them,

      Weaving around them, the dangerous-shaking shapechanging

      building images in my mind, the images my mind will come to commit to memory, outrageous

      namecalling, tracking mud through the room, confused feeble little mind,

      The last second reflection of light (fluorescent) in a passing by mirror, sheen of the glass, corner of

      an eye.

V.   And don’t ever be afraid, there is nothing to fear.

      And don’t ever be ashamed

      Of what it takes to get back home again.

      Busted blind, or deaf and lame,

      All the bended bent outside in, dim lit,

      Rushing rivulets away,

      To get back home again.

VI. Lungfishes

      Lungfishes

      Amphibian reptilian paraphyly

      Air-filled-lungs, expanding gills, words falling out of ash like scales off of eyes.

      Plague, pulque, fire, flood, and gramophone.

VII. and we sat in schools, in little classrooms, bounded in by glass, bounded in by glass.

       And we listened,

       James Fenimore Cooper, Max Planck, the dreadful XYZ affair.

       Have mercy.

       The devils on us that hide in every subject, behind every pause.

       Deconstruct the clause, graph the sentence out.

IIX. Fire-pimps that hide behind the tinder.

       Lightning-skies that hide behind the storm.

       Reckless are the curtains torn, the rattle of the steel.

       The storms behind the clouds

       And this is what the tuhunder says as it begins to pour,

       Rushing rivulets, rivulets away.

IX.  Dans cet abime, abondance.

X.    and the fire became endemic, it was far too hot,

       The blood so warm and the skin so flushed,

        And the rain come spilling out.

       The noise so quiet and the light so bright,

        The visions so blurry, the lines so static, the colors so fade.

        Fill them in, fill them in.

Song Texts by Cécile Félix

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Song Texts

by

Cécile Félix

Numb

dive into my iris
arises the numb disease
let it fall in space
on time
words
shewed swords
only what she learned and not what she feels-
let her fall- let her fall-
in
love
in
what
where
when we came for/from
and now it arises

Eva

it is right it is wrong
it is black it is white
it is here, now it’s gone
it is right, it is right

it’s ugly and it shows
is it bad?
now it moves me!
it is all so close
it is melancholy for joy

and it’s fast
slow
down
to earth
up to the skies to the skies
Oh!Oh OhOh…

pinguin people

I wish I was pure
So I’m spoiled
I wish I was queen
wish I was, wish I was
I
am
co
rrupted
I am?

I wish I was lovely
and I only pretend
I wish I was lovely Oh Oh!
Here I am
I wish I had never cheated on you
If only in my dreams, If only in my dreams
I wish I had never cheated on you
If only, if only, Oh my! if only I!
Wish I was a child I could cry I could cry
I Wish I was a child

 

Bio: Name is Cécile Félix- I play and write my own songs under the Name BoB.
Was born in Bordeaux, France in 66.
Live in Hamburg, Germany since 1995.

I’ve been playing in a few bands before I started my solo project, with names like Spunge Paper, kill the Body and the head will die, les idiots.
I wrote my first poem at 11, my first song at 20.
I’ve always been drawing and started to paint a few years ago.

Poetic Statement: The point is to create,to find a way out of the blue and sometimes into the black..
I like to use accidents in creation, see myself as a tool versus a master.
I practice the same in my life if I can. Not trying to change the world, but my vision of it, when it hurts…because: 7milliards people = 7milliards different views about what peace should look like.

Three Poems by Jessica Chickering

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Three Poems

by

Jessica Chickering

Again & Again

I know your body like I my own, every muscle, tendon, freckle, atom, and before you are near
me I feel you everywhere like the wind, all encompassing.
I knew the sound of your voice before you spoke,
and in the moment our eyes met I knew that I loved you
and could not stop myself from being with you,
and could not stop my hand from reaching for yours,
and could not stop lips from finding yours,
and could not stop myself from knowing you,
as I have always and will always know you, because we are one in this moment.

The moonlight streams though exposing every ounce of your flesh like a gift.
You have been waiting and I have been waiting to find ourselves here, intertwined by a lust old
as time, animalistic and humble.
There are no words, only the beauty of the feeling of my tongue on your tongue as I explore
you again and again, (ever undiscovered and discovered and longing).
You are tuned to me, your hands make music on my body and every note that we discover
makes the birds cry out in jealousy,
And until the earth ceases to spin, and the tide ceases to rise, and the birds cease their cries, until that day we will not be apart.
For as long as I breathe, you must breathe, and as long as your heart beats, my heart must beat.

Blue Raincoat Roadside

Lighthouse limelight shines,
Cedar chest lunchbox
and weathervane wine.

Knife chopping onions,
pink watermelon
shudders in the know.

The porch boards bend and
creak under the weight
of her unleaving.

My face is her face.

Hush – when I am old,
sideways and troubled
I will absorb home,

searching my memories
for a glimpse of that light.

Tasty

Cheiloproclitic at your feet
brush, touch, taste
Cheiloprocilitic at your feet
resuscitate, breath, heat
Cheiloproclitic at your feet
pucker, suck, bite
Cheiloproclitic at your feet
lick, swoon, punch
Cheiloproclitic at your feet

Brief bio: My name is Jessica Chickering. I live in Denver, Colorado. I am 34 years. Getting old is both awesome and terrible. I hate people who say cliché things about aging. I write, (say something self-effacing about my writing followed by something redeeming). I graduated from the University of Colorado – Denver with a BA in writing and an emphasis in poetry – I pay the bills doing something that utilizes little of the talents I crafted. I have cat named Girl Kitty, I call her GK for short. I am happy to be alive.

Poetic Statement: Poetry is amazing and undervalued. This is true for so many things I find important and worthy in the world as it stands at this moment. I long for a place where I feel more at home. I feel at home in poetry.

 

Three Poems by RC deWinter

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Three Poems

by

RC deWinter

shedding stardust

i am unglued
from the world
freefloating
a bit of cosmic dust
the moorings i fly past
limned with thorns
my hands are still

Madman’s Cathedral

You’ve been here over and over and over again.
This place is so familiar it almost feels like home.
It’s the hell behind your eyes,
the goblin-made cathedral in which you worship –
unwillingly, it’s true, but faithfully nonetheless.
And it’s not even hushed as a cathedral should be.
Screams follow you down the aisle,
echoing endlessly off the arches crowning you in bloody thorns
that tangle in your antlers and slide down your corded neck
to rest against your much-decorated chest,
inside which your heart beats an arrhythmic conquista.
No one awaits you at the altar where the thousand skulls grin,
mercilessly mocking sleep as you kneel unshriven
and know you’ll make this pilgrimage again.

Dorothy Gale, B-Girl: The Real Story

Did I ever tell you about
how I met the Wizard
and how there was nothing
in that black bag for me?
Because there wasn’t any black bag.
You think you know this story
but you don’t.

There I was,
hanging out all innocent
in my farmgirl jumper
and dorky ankle socks.
I kept my hair in the braids
to keep it out of my face
while I was bushwhacking
my way to The Emerald City,
but yeah – I was wearing
those killer red shoes.

I ditched the damn dog
because he just couldn’t seem
to get with the program –
which was
to get the hell out of Dodge
(and never back to Kansas).

Anyway,
the dog was always nervous.
He peed in the basket,
yapped like a springsprung
windup toy,
ate grass and puked it back –
once almost on my shoes –
so I left him with the strawman
and the clinking, clanking,
clattering collection
of calliginous junk.

More on that in a min…

The lion – that pussy! –
had run off ages before,
back to whatever hidey-hole
he inhabited before that lousy
halfhearted attempt at courage.
He was more trouble
than he was worth anyway,
all the time sniveling and shaking
and hiding his eyes behind
that stupid plume on the end
of his tail.

By the time I’d got within
spitting distance of the Wizard
the other two had decided
they’d had enough of
sleeping in the dirt
and talking trees
and pelted apples
and that hag on the broomstick
with her underwater face
always showing up and yelling
about something or another.

They settled in a cottage
on the outskirts of the city,
for all the world like any
old married couple.
Lemme tell ya, though,
somehow i can’t see
either one of them in an apron
and I bet they fight about
who does the dishes.
‘Cause let’s face it –
wet straw is no fun
and neither is rusty tin.

Anyway,
I sashayed alone
through those monster gates.
I never had a problem
with a guard.
I’d smile and flirt
and give ’em a little
of the good old wide-eyed admiration
and boom!
I was wherever I needed to be.

When I’d cleaned up some
and gotten a new dress
and traded those socks for silk
and found a shoemaker
to put some higher heels
on those killer red shoes
i didn’t look half bad.

All that folderol
about the Wizard
and killing the witch?
There was no curtain.
There was no loud
and angry voice.
Pure bunk!

He was a regular guy,
sitting there just bored to death.
He took one look at me
and he was mine.
And funny thing –
I kinda liked him too.
He asked me what I wanted
and all of a sudden
I wasn’t sure.

It’s been a few years now
and I’m still here,
just the Wiz and me,
living it up in this huge
art-deco monstrosity.
We play cards and we dance.
We take bubblebaths
and never have to worry
about bills or housework
or any of the stuff
that eats away
at most people’s lives.

And on Sundays
we take the carriage out,
all decked out in our best.
We ride through the city,
waving and smiling
and getting hit in the face
with flowers tossed by
adoring bumpkins.

I don’t know how
he got these people
to put him in charge
and I don’t care.
I’m sitting pretty, I am –
good food, nice clothes
and no more slopping hogs.

And if I have to listen
to dreary stories about
hot-air balloons
and hocus-pocus hokum
that’s okay – fine by me!
I’m not even sure
where the hell I am,
but I’m the wife
of the most powerful man
ever to rule a country
that doesn’t exist,
and yet is more real
than any place
I’ve ever known.

Poetic Statement: Although the majority of my poetry to this point might be called confessional,
it is important not to conflate the poet with the poem. A germ of truth can blossom into a tree leaved with outrageous fantasy. I find exploring and experimenting with new forms helps keep perspective fresh, and I no more limit myself to one genre in writing than I do in art. Poetry is communication. If I touch one heart or provoke one mind to think through my writing, I have done my job.

 

Bio: RC deWinter is a photographer, digital artist, poet, essayist and singer-songwriter currently living and working in Haddam, Connecticut. She has been shooting photos for over 25 years, using both traditional and digital SLR equipment. Her digital work is created using a variety of software and includes oil paintings, watercolor sketches and drawings.

Her work has appeared in print, notably in the New York Times, chosen for publication in the New York City in 17 Syllables haiku competition, Uno: A Poetry Anthology, Pink Panther Magazine, Arts Creation Magazine, The Sun Magazine, 2River View, Poetry Nook, Garden Tripod and The American Muse as well as in many online publications.
In addition to her personal online portfolios, Ms. deWinter’s art is exhibited on of several internet-based showcases, including Saatchi Online, ARTbracket, The Art for Cancer Gallery, Copperflame Gallery, b-uncut and Artists, Writers and Photographers in the Raw. ABC has licensed several of her paintings to be used as set decor on the television series Desperate Housewives.

Ms. deWinter is honored to be the first digital artist invited to exhibit her work at an October 2011 solo show the Arts of Tolland Gallery in Tolland, Connecticut.

Six Poems by Juliet Cook And j/j hastain

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Six Poems

by

Juliet Cook and j/j hastain

 

Inside Out

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.

Elated Excavation

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
dream state.
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
the fur.

Fury dangling on the edge,
purring at you to count
yourself in

Cuckoo Loincloth

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
after anal.

Prepare for ocular penetration
and spray paint a ventricle
with gasoline.

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
Aberrant apparitions

Archetypal pilgrimage
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
With splinters

Because large sacs
And vertical hives
Are buzzing in between
Biting distance

Like the spots within
Spots in
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
forsaken gowns
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
not
North
in other words the
womb
full of worms
the groom of
a returning blood flow
brimming with another line up
marooned brain waves

Replicate life force
The void?
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
healing
fetish violence.
One side a negative
stab wound
fantasy/reality.
Never ending hemorrhaging hemisphere. Never
ending lavish
light

Poetic Statements:

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.

***

Bios:

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.