June 27-July 3, 2005: Juliet Cook and Mark Murphy

week of June 27-July 3, 2005



Juliet Cook and Mark Murphy


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Juliet Cook
JulietX@Bust.com

Bio (auto)

My name is Juliet Cook and I currently reside in Columbus, Ohio I enjoy poetry, erotica, decoupage, and petite dessert products I have a pet Boston Terrier who seems to be afflicted with pica, so I feed him my rough drafts My blog can be found at www.xanga.com/CandyDishDoom A few recent publication credits are ‘Wicked Alice’, Sein Und Werden’, and ‘Poems Niederngasse’.

The following work is Copyright © 2005, and owned by Juliet Cook and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Seemly

Enter the room with a shiny lap dog
trotting behind well-lotioned heels With a ruffled floral print nightgown We serve freshly-squeezed juice and fluffy pancakes No dried-up fruit No poppy seeds stuck between teeth We hope you perused the list of appropriate topics We serve freshly-squeezed juice and floral print
pancakes to shiny lap dogs Enter the room fluffy Perfectly poised in the middle,
a round pat of butter appears
as if from a dollhouse-sized scoop We hope you perused the well-lotioned fruit We hope you exude politesse
when you enter the room, trotting behind
a shiny scoop, smelling sweet, serving a round
of appropriate topics Please appropriately pat
fresh, ruffled lap dogs Please don’t leave
a crumb, a stain, a snippet of unapproved
fluffy No stray dogs No dried-up heels
We hope you exude shiny poise, perfect teeth
We hope you squeezed juicy poppies,
served fresh from a dollhouse-sized gown Smelling sweet from appropriate topics, 
we serve floral print stuck between teeth
We serve please no please no please no
butter-stained snippet of unapproved print Poppy seeds exude politesse when you appear
in the middle of a fluffy pancake


Boy/Girl Order

Girls, we start off with a fairy tale Picture Snow White in the glass
coffin If you were dead,
our products could transform you
into a corpse fit for a prince Polished-apple red stain
would linger on your cheeks
as the witch’s skin grows green
because she has wrinkles,
frown-lines, dark circles In contrast, accept this powder-sugared donut
as a prop Girls, we have a tendency
to get stale if nobody bites
The boys are being primed
in the next room Salivating
over squeezed tubes, thick frosting,
a warmed-up sandwich
minus the crusts
You loved your crusts cut off
when you were a child You smiled at smooth, white
bread and plastic utensils A sweet dollhouse scene But Mother doesn’t trim your nails anymore
and we’ve seen your rough edges Dirty underneath Like witch fingernails, like claws
The declawed kitty gets the heavy petting You don’t want to be a sick cat, 
spitting your hairballs in public Just smile and purr;
hide the unpleasantries in your purse Keep your growing pains a secret, a pretty riddle
in a little pink pouch Sweet pussies-

when the boys come back, rub against their knees;
see how long before they gather
a handful of your hair
like it’s a leash Even if it hurts,
hide the blood Discard
those horror stories you may have heard Those were told by the ugly girls.


Underneath the Shells

It feels like my head was balanced
precariously
in an egg holder
and you cracked it,
but didn’t stay to eat Now I can’t stop leaking
I can’t stop dreaming
I’m a trained tiger,
leaping through flaming hoops
to find something I lost I awake with my hair on fire It feels like I can’t put it out
unless I slice off the top of my head,
let what’s inside slide
into a buttered-up pan
I can pretend to be sunny side up
when I’m sizzling I can pretend to be watching TV
when I’m reading
my palms Another lifeline breaks off
I predict my reincarnation
as a Faberge egg-
glittery surface, but I’ll break your teeth
if you try to bite any deeper.


Mark Murphy
marcomurcadagh@hotmail.com

Bio

Mark Murphy lives in Huddersfield, England

The following work is Copyright © 2005, and owned by Mark Murphy and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

The Untrodden Snow

A girl in the pub thinks I’m a poet She asks me
what I do I tell her I notice things, like her mouth,
its thick lips She says it isn’t good enough
and wants to know what poets do She has her own ideas· “Mainly they live
in lofts, eat baked beans straight from the tin,
drink a lot and can be seen, more often than not,
walking in town parks.” She says it’s all part
of their job Last night I was sober, walked
home through the park, didn’t see any poets there,
didn’t see anybody, just some snow drifting
this way and that and a dog barking at a tree When I got home, the whole street was in darkness The snow was all mine It felt good thinking
about the girl in the pub How pretty she was Her big brown eyes Her mouth
when she smiled Her laugh when she said:
“I think poets are supposed to write poetry.”