Nipple in My Granny’s Ear

I tried to make a sandwich
On my sleeping granny’s head
She woke up
toothless still
and nibbled the bread instead


Remembering the day you got bit by that snake Took nine hours to die motherfucker you laughed tried to laugh My head off that day got slapped in the face but I kept on laughing

Reminiscing you tried to drown me in that lake Everybody just standing there watching So me take you down and you going too Tried to crack that skull wide open I did But your’s hard headed

Hours melting into the sand punch tipsy slapped and still laughing So hard I and my face become that snake We wriggle in the dust up into you all mango sensual like Enter your cervice towards the performative essence of you Just out of curiosity

Momma preacher’s assless chaps are a pleonasm Slap! Past the challenging textures and scents it presented

Momma preacher said my jeans cutting all up in my ass Slap! Snake me wound through your 4c colon curl just like my hair used to be before this transition

Momma I need make-up for drill team Slap! Just popped into my head Preacher said Seedless grapes are an abomination

The tissue puffs and the thousand red hot burnt orange Jagged punctures letting in rusty pins of light I know you saw the shimmer too heard you Plaintiff sorry song screams sans the preacherly frills Sizzling mini bites I thought man Fire ants ain’t got no chill

Now this is a show I could stick around for Witness nature? Turning you inside out but

My smoky eyes have somewhere else to be

Černá Matka

Frothy sputumed nescience until Black Madonna presents you to you

To your Self-scattered airborne Epigenetic molecules

Righteous Torrential discharge biblio-political original sin

Flys Dropping like Uncovered mouth Pity me Cough up microtonal notes Into a nursery rhyme

Ten million droplets In dodgynous Quorum non-sense form a Plume Effervescent

Enter the space race A Snot Rocket To launch Ten thousand Genocides

Living and working in Amsterdam, painter, poet and performance artist Cole Verhoeven aka Florence Sisyphus Quixote-Nightingale is sent from the future to tell you that the sky is indeed falling.

Twitter: quorum_nonsense

Instagram: thechickrepublic

Artwork by Marcelle Hanselaar

pencil, oilpaint on board, 30×35 cm, 2016

Courtesy of the artist to be used for the may issue of BHP