Joyelle McSweeney

Joyelle McSweeney is the author of eight books of poetry, prose, plays, and essays. Her most recent books are Dead Youth, or, The Leaks, a verse play feat. Julian Assange and a pile of dead teens, and The Necropastoral: Poetry, Media, Occults, a collection of ecogothic poetics essays. With Johannes Göransson, she edits the international press, Action Books. She lives in the Rust Belt city of South Bend, Indiana.

Film by Paul Cunningham


Yeti Stet

a remix of a “Then Why Don’t You Marry It” by Sampson Starkweather


yum -purr -umm un-yearn

I met my little Fern on the shoulder of the berm

fraught and grape shot like a jar of wheat germ

when the damp’s got in and the funk’s come out

she said: some kind of rain is falling that I can feel and not see

it leaves its frackey oil all over me

it leaves it funky fluid all over me

she said it leaves is frackey funky fluid all over me


my trunk is overrun with the funktious unk

whoosh whoosh drone hunch down the seaside on the bus

to lethewards I’m drunken and it got me on my knees

this style hath slipped this coil this sun dial cannot see

can’t tell the dancer from the dancefloor or the cancer from the bees

that swarm the sunwarm layer like inclination’s grease

the penthouse of the hijab where the thinking is


throw ope the oven door

bake up the petit four

serve em them up to Marcel Proust to fetch old lightning some more

walking on the moor

mid the asterisky spore

in my dresses in my tresses map the edits of the yetis

where they land their float plane on the spiral jetties

and all the yetis go STET

all the yetis are like Jedis all the ladies go STET


that’s how I squandered

 my meat education

bye bye mortal coil

fare thee well incarnation

and every hesitation histamine or incantation

was a prestidigitation

and every headlight lit the core

hammered closed the fire door

and every cockscomb knew the score

and ever carbon-bearing frond had a plan all right

as it loosed its ferny spore into the web of life

it was hype

all right

it was hype

from my synthetic yeti hairjob to my titanium core

with my synthetic yeti hairjob my titanium core


as I pulled away in my rickshaw of thought

and my feet were like a lamb

with a lamprey in its side

it marked its every iamb as it limped along the track

we call that pedagogy

when we’re hanging in the gyre

like christmas lights in an L.A. mall

we’re notational and we’ve taken over

all the nacre that’s in heaven

we’re rich y’all

check the grooves in this record

check the lacquer on that cat


where I purr

where I yearn

yup purr Laura Dern

do you want to see the gyre?




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