Juliet Cook (Ohio, USA): Three Poems

MASS PRODUCTION

1.

You can also get a tub of that size
filled with tiny debutantes. Not even talking
Cool Whip tub. Talking bigger, more durable
plastic with bright label affixed,
haphazardly stuffed with little wannabe queens,
fresh from the assembly line. That new car smell,
that pink approximation of bendable legs
under flammable dance dress. Molten plastic core.
Interchangeable whores with poseable tiaras.


2.

The screw is rotated by a motor, feeding pellets
up the screw’s grooves. The depth of the screw decreases
towards the end of the screw nearest the mold,
compressing the heated plastic. As the screw rotates,
the pellets are moved forward in the screw
and they undergo extreme pressure and friction
which generates most of the heat needed
to melt the pellets. Heaters on either side of the screw
assist in the heating and temperature control.


3.

You can also get a plastic whip, that new car friction,
pink grooves haphazardly stuffed with Cool Whip.
Of course some of them aren’t even good enough for the back seat.
The list of defects includes: blister, burn marks, color streaks,
silver streaks,
delamination, embedded contaminants, stringiness, voids, warping,
weld lines, and splay marks. Her legs won’t bend back any farther
and the nozzle hasn’t even shot its load. Little wannabe whores
should bleach their assholes, the inverse of the product’s shape.
Compress the heated plastic, scream like a size queen, burst into
flame.


LIKE

Like a frankensteined representation of a woman cobbled from the
disconnected parts of other kinds of women stitched together with coarse
black thread (like too bad for smooth embroidery floss) embalmed with a
cocktail of blood, black mold, black cherry vodka, black cherry Faygo,
and rat poison.

Like my effluence is deadly. Like sickly sweet green pellets sizzling
through another bent spoon.

Like no matter what I say, my echo says, ˜askance” and then I say,
˜let’s dance” and then we trip all over each other in a confusion
of hobbled foxtrot, ribald rumba, and randomly bedazzled chicken
nuggets. Like do you wanna growl, do you wanna grind, or do you wanna cluck?

Like squeeze my ˜rubber duckie” like it’s a ˜stress ball” and
then fling it into the ˜abyss”, aiming for the motherlode of fake
feathers and the biggest carnival prize. A ring around a duck equals
an armful of plush bear. A very extraneous bear that I would only
pretend to be smitten with if we were still in something like the
˜courting” stage. The ˜heavy petting” phase.

As it is, we’re in something like the sewer water zone and so I say
my name is Rubber Product, Burning Rubber Product and then I screech
away, but it’s a sloshy kind of screeching. Like heavy petting a
beheaded bird. Like spooning a black cherry to a sewer rat.

I’m most likely exaggerating, but who could blame me with all these
toxins in my bloodstream. Like lip plumping lip gloss applied to the
wrong body part. Like lip plumping lip gloss applied to the nth degree.
Like assisted listening devices at high volume tuned to the shrieking
frequency of my donut hole issues. Like a yappy little alien terrier
with boneless wings.



PROJECTILE VOMIT

pink primulas wither when terrorized, when strangled by sausage casing
like greasy snake skin discarded but still oozing
like piss rubber doll tubing

on seething kneelers, protective pads and oven mitts burned through
to the skin; flesh is sizzling; the word deflesh
flares and sputters on a faulty neon sign

when the hot pink boils itself down into a dark ally
a dark alley, a back room of discontinued flavors
of Jell-O molds quivering

rancid animal stomach churns into laffy taffy strings
and nodules and anal beads and hair balls and hack
that hair pie, that squirming hagfish,

that busted jug of spoiled milk dousing messy tuna melt
mayo splattered bathing suit for dog paddling
through the vat of hot cooking grease:

a bubbling and blistering donut hole, a crackling pig, exposed
chitterlings, glutinous spaghetti straps
slipping off bloody shoulders



© Juliet Cook 2008