Beautician Games Waxing Legs And Nails

Turntable & Blue Light Lady

A taste of the poetry of Juliet Cook, Italian translation of the undersigned.
http://www.turntablebluelight.com/2009/04/juliet_cook.html

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feathers.

This is Cinnamon, previously published on Thirteen Myna Birds .

The big window, a piece of ash
near your tiny spiny plants, empty bottles,
my eyes caked with brown kajal.
You sleep and dream of sheep.

The point is: do I really see you?
No way. But sure you can feel me,
fill me. Or at least you could.
Or at least you wish you would
when sliding under the covers
on Thursday night
eyelessly groping for the mattress girl.
I’m saving the way
you uncovered this organic clavichord of me
as I said Let’s play the black mass game , the way
you made sure that particular quiver
wasn’t fake. A wise cow like me
deserves to be fed, cleaned and covered.
That night I was a cow in labour
and you were gently holding on to that calf leg of me.

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Rosa

tried to wash away the yellow white and gray,

to sleep before and not to seek cruelty to the truth.

to be trivially submissive, as good as the back of a cat

automatically to the touch, to accommodate, acquiesce,

to enjoy sheets dry and fragrant,

to embrace the big woman who looks a lot like me,

that with all his stump without vibration

thanks, with all herself, pharmacologically

away the nightmares of swords hoes bottles neuro soiled underwear hidden somewhere

expired and snacks under the bed, the eye of the great lawn Dry

imprisoned in a dog beaten, bloated, balding,

a spectrum with large hands, the bike, big brother, a big circular saw, profanity

non-alcoholic beer and it stinks, it stinks of a man, old things, and slapping patriarch,

clotted blood, empty kitchen, three nell'anfora miniature violets.

Hold my hand, smell my mother's womb, black and white crumpled,

his ankle powerful, urticaria stiffened, chin line.

cries in the middle of zombies, his gun leveled.