Juliet Cook & j/j hastain: #NotTrump Series

Juliet Cook & j/j hastain: #NotTrump Series

I'm Not Voting For Your Fake Dog Treats

What does it mean if you hear ice cream trucks in October,
the night before something goes wrong with your dog?

With or without frosting, his barking sound
was better than the food truck. His deep bark

reminded us that change is crucial.


So many fluctuations in a tone.

To tear it brings tears to my eyes.




A tired old dog lays down

in the gutter. Ole'Dan and Little'Anne,

childhood nomads who don't stick with any one
dog tag or any one ice cream truck because

they are so tired of the standard routine.

Those tags can be thrown down and shot

into sticky penny candy.




Tossed into a pit where fallen soldiers were left 

like mosh pit dog fight afterbirth.


We have nothing better to name

than our ripped out, trashed placentas,
but some people would rather cover them up in hot rubber.


Why can't they treat our petticoats

with kindness?




Too many people use a word like wife

beater casually.

Too many people bet money to watch

two dogs try to kill each other

and then toss the bloody ripped parts in the trash.


Throwing each other down, tearing each other apart,

then throwing it out. Hiding the goddamned damage.





He damages the DNA of future offspring.

He grabs them by the pussy,


rams his tongue into their holes

and thinks he deserves

whatever he wants.


He thinks he deserves to be the leader.

We would rather follow

the trails we make by our own creative 


impetus. We don't need to be burdened 

by what this guy has done to us: our entrails the only thing 

we can follow in his wake.


We will create new flying dog houses

for our ripped off tails.

Juliet Cook is a grotesque glitter witch medusa hybrid brimming with black, grey, silver, purple, and dark red explosions. Her poetry has appeared in a peculiar multitude of literary publications. You can find out more at www.JulietCook.weebly.com.

j/j hastain is a collaborator, writer and maker of things. j/j performs ceremonial gore. Chasing and courting the animate and potentially enlivening decay that exists between seer and singer, j/j, simply, hopes to make the god/dess of stone moan and nod deeply through the waxing and waning seasons of the moon.