Jenny Enochsson lives in Uppsala, Sweden. She has an MA in Ethnology and Folklore and, at the moment, is studying to become a Swedish-English translator. Work is forthcoming in Spring issue of The Meadowland Review. Jenny Encochsson maintains a blog at Cinnamon and a collaborative poetry blog at Flowers of Sulfur
Ice needles from iodine sky penetrate his pores
Mäsko steps out of illuminated park umbra
roars pleased to meet you sonar signal
proteobacterial ox-blood jacket red lead fringe
snow cutting eyes and ta-ta the lousy lorgnette
Mäsko offers him milk from Agra &
Oudh out of cylinder smashed salvia sclarea
creoloid fossilization alizarin keratin crash
sure, telephone book paper rolled cigarettes
wine lees ceaseless fun in 1995 but no idea
to blow the bellows anew over shitty chafes
inside flambeau freezing hoodoo rhomboid
Mäsko plays güiro but despite these prospects
Opossum smiles listlessly and parries pronto.
Latex Milk Laced with Gin
Smoke machines’ ferrum pheromone drapes
and slays calligraphic spastic shadows
gutta-percha mouth lap latex milk laced with
gin just a few drops so venom bite will not
weaken or curling round come to naught
he wobbles vigorously a vitreous body comet
adjusts to all sorts of osmosis orbits
cadmium and cast iron headache the
lanky one with irises like lactarius indigo
myopically groping for doorhandle
longing for unobtrusive obscure comfort
not so damn easy with 122 dB electrified
menthol powder dipped oompah boompah in
the background you can leave the room but
spruce resin pitch still drains stellar sinus
actually preferable under some circumstances.
The paving-stones’ flaming green ester
she spins out of the barbed wire ball she
is 42 she almost let him obliterate her
his sophist cynicism witch-burning gaze
entrance, stale attested Travis Bickle
copy mimes a dark l the fountain’s
venereal water whipped neon egg white
ivory electrodes in the trees the cut
in her crystalline lip widely gaping
blue dry ice fog snaps at anemic ankles
inflammable room at tuning-fork point
vicious vaudeville but she is there
again prey playing predatory animal
white lead flakes either powder or skin.
Not possible to plan it like cinnabar syntax or
conjure it up via imbecile intellectualist voodoo
it is more like a resounding broiler boogie shoes
pasted on rotating tufts while the key enamel’s
viaducts give way for grim guttural musculature
sloping engines bolt jupiterblind obstinate.
Equally nutmeg mild and benzoic acid touchy
petitgrain soldering cracks clandestinely
whether we run away in raspberry jam or are
elements of the peltier effect’s ping-pong.
Bathwater crackles frizzles TNT from the fury
but compulsory canalization into culverts
outlet in fringe areas’ solar styrax.
Their soles frizzle pyrotechnically of
the slain Midgard Sepent’s venom.
Tyska Brinken’s growling hollow:
Yeah, I may be fifty, but I have
rejuvenating xanthan gum injected
in my cheeks each week, she says.
Hula-hula hieroglyphs into the alley where
nux vomica cookies are sold as aphrodisiac;
most people kick the bucket after a few bites.
Farina binds the square puddles.
Alkaline apricot liqueur, an emetic.
Da capo out of the sink’s gullet:
rising crimson and Soupe d’asperges.
Hooks bending under supercritical
fluid waves of tambourine banging.
Cement crumbs right up to
the compost green door with
emblem: a dotty dragon that
got itself entangled in gluey creepers.
Walls of larch tree soaked in ambergris;
the teenagers and the arranger pass by
glass containers with plasma smoldering Syrah.
He adds oil to their Bloody Mary
and they feel the basic crash,
the granite floor’s incipient erosion.
He examines their cheek bones
and then incites the dynamo:
their bodies up in trapezes,
one-armed bandit arms rotating dislocated,
camphor gangrene rises from floor cracks.