JULIET COOK

MADAME WET PLASTER

makes you feel dusted with perfumed talcum powder—makes you pay attention
to your posture—the alignment of each vertebra—the extension of your pale limbs--
a recitation of whispered fricatives—a meticulous declension—a methodical binding
of damp gauze strips prepares you for her orthopedic corsetry—in spite of the inner flutter
you could be a perfectly inanimate dress form—you could be the base for a hoop skirt
shaped like a bird cage—jeweled finches could flirt beneath your bustle as you are made
to stand perfectly still—even if a tiny beak grazes your clitoris—
she could mummify you—leave only the vulva exposed—rosy throbbing bird throat—
she could stroke—she could pinch—she could use stick pins between your lips
until you quiver—knowing you deserve to be punished for your naughty curvature—
makes you take a lacing—wet grape leaves swaddling sticky pearls—tiny kernels of white rice—
you swell in hot water—you beg to be exhumed—rolled around on her tongue—her trilled R
 

 

FONDANT PIG ANGST

My wig drips off the rigging like a hairy exclamation point
and splats like a wolf spider.  Ugly fangs

look like ornamental gate spikes
on which my ungulate inner child
could morbidly impale, squeal, and undulate.
Suckling pig, candied apple
ball gag, fragrant choker pearl
onions burnt and oozing insides
into silver basin. A bed of baby carrots
like orange fingers masturbate my
juicy slit and its sordid stuffing.
I call it dressing. I call it gauze strips
wrapped around tongue tips.  Forked.
Served on shiny blue-black dessert plates.

Linked to high-fashion blue-black hair dye,
mysterious cancers spread like floral motifs
in certain lights, under certain lenses,
through certain baroquely mutated sieves.
In extra fancy flour, a bed of baby spiders
could horrifically copulate, breed, and hide
their tiny toxic pearl shaped eggs
like haunted house costume jewelry.
Flenser is a pretty word for fat razor.
Kohl is a pretty word for black eyes.
When I cry, the spider legs run down
the cooked-up face of a confectionary pigsty

and squatting beneath an ornate balcony,
my spoiled lap dog defecates with bloodshot, gleaming eyes.