Postmodern Poetry – Xanax Pop by Lewis LaCook

I’m just trying to keep it real. Real, real, I’m just trying to keep it, real, real, just trying, just trying to keep it.

I’m just trying to keep it keep it keep it real real, just trying to keep it real. I’m just trying to keep it real. I’m just trying to keep it real. To keep it, to keep it, to keep it real real real, I’m just trying, trying trying trying, I’m just trying to keep it to keep it to keep it real. I’m just trying to keep it real.

I’m just trying just just, just trying just just, just trying just just, just trying to keep it real. I’m just trying to keep it real. Just real just real just real just real, trying. I’m real just real trying just real trying to just real trying to keep it real.

The whole cycle of consumption and regeneration.

The whole cycle just of consumption trying and to regeneration keep it real. I’m just trying to keep it real. I won’t punk out on you. The whole real cycle just regeneration just of consumption to keep it real. I’m just trying to keep it real. I won’t punk out on you.

Punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk punk. The whole cycle of consumption and regeneration. To keep it to keep it to keep it to keep it, I’m just trying to, to keep it to keep it to keep it to keep it. Keep it keep it real. Keep it keep it real.

I won’t consumption cycle whole of just trying to keep it keep it real and regeneration, punk punk punk punk out on just trying. I’m just trying the whole cycle. I’m just trying the whole cycle. The whole keeping just trying of real and consumption punk punk consumption punk. Real.

I’m just trying to keep it real. Punk.

Perhaps this is what you’ll see: the burning end, deft with felt and fog, turning in on itself with a red rotation of home. Along the coast, the black-and-white film is pocked with medicines long forgot in the clutch of frying, of living; suns blossom stolidly amid viscous-turning-white, where our hero poses erotic queries against a normalized database finally fit with its forecast form: willows lolling like widows dowsing in steady with measured steps across the lawn. You may notice pain in your feet, as if you’ve broken through standing. You’re “destined to live and sow the seeds of terror in the dark hours of the night, ” Victoria Winters intones. O, sexy sexy tag cloud cloud sexed sexy seed cloud tagged flickr ing xerox costume sex, sexy tagged flag given sexed everything she tagged cloud could wants tag! Ere nige nigxy tagged flag g’veed rotat amid visast me. Along the coast, the black-and-white film is pocked with medicines loorecast form: willos pocked with medicines long forgot in the clutch of frying, of living; suns blosso! You’ll perhaps go solo over appendices separated by gulfs of guilt and a jar of spiders next to me on the bed, foaming uproars across the steam.

I dress out of season
for these trees. The coolest wedge
of an april moon
drowns my tongue in a fury
of budding. Such solemnity

she limns through what she wants
to believe: as if there were
nothing between her but
the sky and the poem, staggering
–“Young, dumb, and full of cum”

A man spoke to them from
lying on bascule bridge, asked
“You okay?”

Yeah, I guess. The end of her
umbrella smells
of burni ng hair along
the guts of clifton ave crunk
mother loose, knows
karate
–There’s Sirens Back There-

“You got some nice things,
mr or mrs America; I like
throwing them at you”

You don’t know what
a badass motherfucker
I am. I gargle sliced moonlight
sets little fires licking
the hair she so
ardently believed in.
It’s true she’d heard those
birds before:

“–fucking the shit out of
you mom
ffucking, fucking it
fucking the shit the shit
the shit out of your mom

Who or what is me without stating it as a question?

from a conversation with the A.L.I.C.E. chatterbot.

The lamp swings back and forth, raking its yellow light across my unwashed head. I tried to hold sleep in like a precious fluid, something I needed to breathe with; instead, cats howled through the morning. This goodie case contains all our shame. I make sure to eat your paprikas as soon as I jump out of bed, to slather my morning breath with onions. Without coffee, cigarettes taste brittle, acrid: paper dissolving to blister on the chafe of the lips. At the height of seeing these angles, seraphim measured out holograms of lovers long dead to sunshine, long morose like wetly-packed bread, and I laughed while tied to the bed, mussing softly her insides with a plugin or with messy code. How many times has something stopped working? Before these doors rattle open, along the slipperest of buttery etchings, tubers tie our eyes together just below the soil, and bulbs burst.

bent fences
where the bush was
shellac the hamster
asleep in a green fury
and it would look pretty
for bursts of sun on chrome
even as i stitch this black river’s throat up
alone below your beatup sky
christmas lights as shining doors blown off their hinges
curled and defending the tender pink meat
someone else burning to tap archaic machines
i have to think about the texture
alone below your beatup sky
swoon units
never enough text
this one sidles along the mill’s hips

from King’s Woods, A dynamic, temperature-reactive locative hypertext poem.

I don’t want to put you in any danger. Wood grains and yellow hanging lamps piss all over the walls in that room you want into, clouding the drywall with a smell you can lick off your fingers, leaning back and letting one thin coverlet is dead. Young David Collins can sit in the garden confiding in his “ghostly friend,” or querying her: “I know who’s dead,” she explains. These days the feelings swarm and subside like watching a beach wrinkle and disturb her. As far as it’s now known, what’s important is that men become men again, or mountains mountains, or maybe my butterfly dreams are trying to tell you something. My butterfly dreams are trying to tell you something. Sometimes needs eclipse self, or sometimes even the seams drill us with ferocious and lovely light. Sure, you wanna save everybody, but from what, and just where will you whisk them off to? I’m impaled on sweetness, rubbing sugar into the wound.