Juliet Cook and j/j hastain

FRANKENSTEIN’S WIFE WEARING TORN LINGERIE


When I'm dead, the creation 
of my art won't exist anymore.
Grey fragments will exist from my cremation,
but what if nobody wants to save them?

What if I'm not even wanted
by the ants and instead
become a hungry ghoul
during a time of year that never
ends. Beelzebub rises me up,

sinks me down into a bowl of vomit,
stirs me with a knife,
frosts me on top of inedible cake
and I don’t stop eating
myself like the bride and groom
who married in spite of broken spoons
hurling themselves across rooms.

Who married in spite of time telling itself
lies about every cup size.
Egg cups filled with small lunatics
scrambling out of cracked urns,
seeking a new shell. Casing death's
asylum for the best whore on the block.

You know what they say about whore's breath
trapped in hoarfrost. It is not a green light 
turning disco ball colors
while we wait to hit the gas.
I always hit the brakes 

when old cobwebs get lodged in my throat
and I can't tell if it's a choking hazard or else
another sign from a dying pussy.
Poor thing. She always seems to be dying.

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