Postmodern Poetry – Xanax Pop by Lewis LaCook

you molt the toil off nerves in reverse of corpses to breathe purer air you molt the toil off the ghosts of 12th street chase me down 11th chunks of unabridged thinking the bus cracks into view they’re afraid of boredom there were sixteen of them half-lidded and leaning back rapidly just under the edge of driving down the shoulder half-lidded and leaning back , glistens reasonably – my lap as launchpad and i would tell you that quiet could be mistaken objects almost fossilized with dew to avoid the grid it’s dave woodard we’re spinning cracks into our pay my favorite black cigarette lighter desiderara on thin fabric threads of heats of cinders a real nice contrast everything outside is fake running pruned denim through the middle an amazing transforming fruit could be mistaken the flowers like open wounds coffee’s warm hold on the tongue guitars threading between my movement over deep gestures piano keys were falling everywhere think of the squirming kittens looked at the baby kittens birthing this morning’s kittens and i would tell you that i make patterns grated to the degree of rupture lurking on the mailing list the bus cracks into view a real nice contrast float among late may’s midnight lilac mists i murmur to her it won’t work as well atomic and slim because i’m going to take a shower the rococo loneliness staring out petulent windows blondes smirk and look away pink and amethyst and idle it’s bleeding behind the sun like simple japanese temples the furrowed gray sky i’m blessed with them shellac the hamster guitars threading between hitting herself, sobbing your wealth, spirit-walking if the ice cream truck starts playing different tunes piles of dust flute lures us into this flowing of open wombs innocence was your century now that they’ve weeded out the weak ones laying down in glass invasive YOU’LL ROT IN HELL FOR THIS smothered by light

The Moon in Lake Erie is an algorithmic, envrionmentally-generative, object-oriented hypertext currently in progress at http://www.lewislacook.org

of piles dust
the now weeded that weak ones they’ve out
staring petulent windows out
everywhere were falling keys piano
her balance
synthesizing images
between threading guitars
macho robot teletubby
where was bush the
like an the stalks of shadow innocence room the
without doubt

The Moon in Lake Erie is an algorithmic, envrionmentally-generative, object-oriented hypertext currently in progress at http://www.lewislacook.org

Beautiful screengrabs propagate conflagrations,
where glass is the slowest liquid we know.
Late June sweat sweetens us, timorous among
these dark caul afternoons, turning us cold,

hinting that there’s something to us.
Maybe the sun won’t rise tomorrow;
maybe our books wil lavish into dust.
The vindictive fence propriety on West

Twenty-fourth street; their eyes are as
muddy as The Black River, slipping into lakes.
I caught television from buying anchors there,
and now I sign my name as a ratio

The Poems sketch a trellis over every matrix
I love the newfound freedom of moving letters

Everyday more, is added, to it
I’m fixing someone’s software by gutting it
while smoking marijuana and worrying over

what Mary wants
cherry religions
a faculty position
Desiderata of uniform packets
my own hands gone every morning

If I sleep with a pillow over my head
it’s because my dreams keep chattering

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–generated by class.htmlmash.php, a php class to return shuffled text from web pages(in this case, the url fed into the object was a google query on my own name–a component of The Moon in Lake Erie

half-lidded and leaning back to stay alive she ate a wilderness of children the anonymous animal and it would look pretty the margins of objects my touch spreads across the beach some diseases will give you symptoms: your faces spinning in bleach for bursts of sun on chrome coffee’s warm hold on the tongue stalks the room like the shadow of an innocence heat and quiet the cat on it’s back with it’s belly in the air we found dirty magazines throwing them to the curbside it won’t work as well electronic literature the rain infuses everything with jaundiced light i was drinking your flesh think of the squirming kittens you hate the mindfreak never enough text innocence was your century the victims mist slim methods please let him be on his way something had to shock him to change desiderara on thin fabric warning squirming moist and mewling cats afternoon threads with sleep something to wash that taste out of your mouth? once laying down in glass the failure of safety the fewest dropped calls of any wireless network mud from the pores just under the edge of poor soul the cat on it’s back with it’s belly in the air storms flow in and out watch how it’s all reflected in the screen ftp.solace give me any excuse this pink fire i wrecked your life threads of heats of cinders i would lick that light from cracks and i’ll screw up your laundry wrapping himself in televised leaves

–generated by The Moon in Lake Erie

You wrestle with an essence. Curling alongside someone’s
analogue brogue, you can gorge yourself on animal fat
on the hoof; you can pounce on opulent ventures still latent

with sterility; you can grow your order over every other
face until you walk on unrippled undappled pathways

and no gaze savages your form. The lookout on the mountain
grazes unheard trees, even weeps when she finds
those broken limbs; hot hazy days, the blood of the conquest,
puddles lapping at the margins of the Lake. A marquee

on the Lorain Plaza Theatre says something that reads.
I calculated the lacerations, their rate and their tarry,

and turned red over end, over and over and over again
until you walk, striped with tertiary operations,
through my door. Then you might have looked at me–

Everything is software to me. The nostalgia for potential tenses as I push forward, and you receive again, sparking petals and latent aurae. I do deliberately with your language as I wish. Showing beneath a thin bed of debit cards your children’s voices to them, amazed such serration aggregates this way, like your purple-striped dress from the dark ages garnering royalty could lock cobalt, tawdry across my face. Or maybe more like Kokoschka? It’s likely Dahmer could only experience gratification when the Gaze was turned away, or snuffed out, and this the gratification you and I would feel in intimacy. This method precludes intimacy. We will have to banish the word “test”.

Troubled, as if burned where the nerves trellis out
into thought: and running murders in the oxygen

In generations the nurture had rummaged among loud crags
and garbled PIN numbers and still not found the relation

to get themselves past Monday. Accelerant is used
around the base of where my helix sings yours

out of its mouth in a puddled olive stream. I’m on fire
with you, really I am: always worry what you’ll think of me

signed and sung, sometimes heartless, like a glass hole.
Annulled, as in burying in, as if worrying under

I’m trying lately to include myself
as no less than the trees and stars
in my landscape-to-be-acted-on. It’s
always such surprise when I see how

I’m an object-for-others, and they deal
with me or move around me, and sex
blooms sticky in the calls of birds, and
love collects itself in the difference.

No-one knows the trouble I’ve seen.
We can’t even assume the existence
of one another, at least as anything
other than refracted light. But lately

it’s comforting to think of myself in the dark,
waiting for you. Sharpening. Sharpening.