Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Thirty-three
Winter 2013
 
Swarm Two
Juliet Cook and Robert Cole

Nobody can save us. You nest above my door frame.
The twitching window needle. The taker and giver
of twisted hives buzzing out every sick hole.
You paint my house in foam. Fear is to groan in a sea
of Rabies the Drooler. I fear drowning by way of wasp
that would bite holes until nothing remains of the real me

but what is real anyway? Hole punch thighs, hole punch eyes,
hole punched fritillaries falling down. Ashes ashes we
used to think we were interesting. Now we are nothing
but rotten fritters that would eat until nothing remains.
You want to crush my indigo mana from those yellow stripes
and deliver me unto no maker. Why am I a heathen to this

sink hole mud. This cartilage comb secreted until it’s hollow.

About Juliet Cook and Robert Cole

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