Postmodern Poetry – Xanax Pop by Lewis LaCook

The Enterprise boldly goes gentle
into that dark night, poly-threaded with
hot alien babes that use “party” as

a verb–it makes me kinda nervous
to say so–vermin photograph ledger pages
backwards and bending around illbient

corners–following Reid Avenue
killing my thighs, hellish tuning across
blasted streetlight terrain–walking

cleanly through the night–the notes burn
their malicious scripts into brick, into
dust–a million grains chattering–

boldly lolling atop a pop-art armistice–
laced up in a gorgeous bold gentilitY

The process runs in its own space, it’s
dual-core, but poly-threaded–Lorain
wounded by petulant skies, quicker
pedestrians–this pill nails me to

running water, and leaves me to hang
dry against mouthing wood oily, with
cracked hands–she’s making lists while
I split and bleed mahogany–wonder

about that rush of tracing faces
walking night clean–showing me
a page black’d out–so you want
about touching files too, eh–

Hellish with strings, with enterprise architecture

I seed my eyes with broke-tooth buildings
springing from my loins to trickle like ice
you wear across your face the sons of Israel–

Bend around this, little one, suddenly
and savagry, I draw vaginas across
your cheeks in animal fat–spitting

I’m the biggest asshole in town–plus
being pushed away I insert bombs
and fragile bottles between your lips

that break off into illbient militias–
I growl when I fuck–cry when you’re inside–
kill and build, kill and build, kill and builD

My contempt for my contemporaries
is completely invisible–shadow-boxing

the blasted and unseen, obscene icky routes
through tough throw-pillow windows

delimit soft seeing–I serve my virgin
electronics with continuity, but

you never forsaw the WAR IN IRAQ or
this beauty of rebuilding bomb-sites–

Albert Fish killed children because, if
it were wrong, god would send an angel

To stop him–Israel–sons of a father

I tuck my balls barely miss iostream
in her taffeta parka and carpal tuning–
prepare to turn away as you must–

you must love asymmetry, you dress
sardonic like nymph rasters along smooth
sooth face, oi, to free up more RAM

horny, forked, ordered, or morbid–
it’s all in the wrist, risking constantly
everything and absurdity, best minds

of my generation, adrift in best buY

The seventh tone of the ninth month–
tired tired tired of your implied biography–
several of reversals sail aisles in deportment
stores fats as taffeta in fetching gritty

last pipe hit across my face unshaved–
pills glissand our salty gaming, but
I CAN’T DISTINGUISH AMONG MODES NO
more or less, nor Romans 11:50–

No more text, much less testicles

Webster’s defines “Privation” as:

What Mary must be missing is the time of smooth silence and sinuous glass; light quelled for Autumn, Summer’s riot brought to its knees and sighing, sighing, sighing to be released. I’d sign anything she put in front of me, as long as I could use your signature. Liquid dimples pepper spice, lying before us indolently and secure; from somewhere else a light breeze coiled its hair. Remember to shower, it says. Don’t forget to re-attach the arms and legs of your favorite action figures. What Mary needs to understand about the Kingbury Run murders is that memory lets you pick stuff up, like cellphone convos or LMFAO at RTFM. Just how much fun is Slinky, tumbling down Brady Bunch stairs like the musculature of the serpent, just before Atari 2600 rats us out to Homeland Security? I don’t feel so secure, I’ll tell you what. I’ll tell you what Mary needs, or I’ll start needing it too.

Me, I’m missing the smooth cilia along the throat where laughter pushes that stalwart wind.