Postmodern Poetry - Xanax Pop by Lewis LaCook

Houses with turrets rut and turn
quick below the touch. Let’s imagine
a street quieter than this one on

a Saturday, and more choked
with gothic. The ones with the taped-
down doors make me nervous.

I imagine the dead numb and filled
with stars; like getting so high
even relief is beneath you.

You probably like those midnight
allies so black with going nowhere
following becomes epic. That’s some

killer shit. Bit by bit they’re boarding
up Lorain, Ohio, and leaving it
to starve the ghosts out of its guts

Technorati Tags: lorain, ohio, ghosts, houses, saturday, postmodern poetry

I could have been watching
the sky shrivel dawn widening
a thick dark lake.

Skin below skin around
time thickening as private property
dropped off into some purer oblivious

ending through which the ground
could or couldn’t be seen.
I could have been helpless, lessening,

only barely a filter for low winds
or niche above upending.
But I was poring over lapse.

On the east side of Lorain, Ohio
trees bend over silent streets
as if the weight of the sky is
too much. I spin along the sidewalk,

crystal and efficient, another mad
man out in pitch night, looking for
the mauve in a vault of storm clouds
that released on us before dusk.

A curtain is open quarter-way on
the second floor of Stan’s Grocery.
Houses push me through the street
making ghost more of me each block

…which in itself is wherefore
an inconstant innoculation
or suffering a returning
flaccid morning orange blossoms

flotilla inelegant and slightly bruised…
I lost that solid deliciousness by shirking
impromptu mesmerisms replete with dawn
stumbling down this new gravel alley…

Funky Cold Elyria

Thanks go out to Michael Kapalin for helping out on this one. His input was invaluable.

Dystopia Main Title Theme

You let it burn (through) your hands
and these sharp liquids cut your tongue
(talking a sour mash)

Are we living now with the lights on
so we can see the keyboard (the hurry
like a whirl of cum below the flesh
and as such has its own heart
beat) if powders and smoking cannot
undone my languages encoded with desperate
attempts on moonlight crying out
into a desired rain (deserted
but saturated with venal calves
hidden in the cavities hidden in
sugars so round they disassemble nerves
without hope nor hunger) we mean
i’m thought to sacrifice here
cock hard like piston embraces dying
and now we’re living in laying
like so many other diseased toys
worn flat but definitely not as desperate as
(I’m sure you need me to be but can’t)

Lorain Palace Theater 1924

Waking cold and locked-in and waiting for
aimless and without succor ( on the cusp
pustles burst against the lame or mellowing
lemons ) wooden piano aping velvet

windows newly walled within
the lawyers ( yes a sewer yes a second
sessions that merged her id and super-
annotations ) ‘ ta-tas harrumph’d with

The sun nurses screaming out
all along C street. Children’s heads

overflow the curbs and wash our lawns
with dream. It’s hard to know

when to pull your cup out from under
the fall of red-lipped days. In the sky

a mouth murmurs and the space of my body
breaks with the weight of roots.

It takes a bit longer, and is more
meditative. A glass of milk,
ridged, ringed, constructs its own
focus. Bottles of pills burn

through the sand, as did
the monolith from 2001.
I think it’s great that you did that.
When I hover like this, it’s an eternity.

All trees are is whispers
from the earth. Today’s sun
can be yesterday’s sun
if you don’t wake up.

He feels a little queesy
weaving eros into the blankets.
It’s best to simply accept
what you can’t control

because the language I use
was left out in the sun
and carried off by animals
who won’t starve, now. How

came you by these convolved turns
of phrase? Most of the things
she’d like to think of as art
are fucking by proxy. In early Spring

potential tensions alleviate themselves
by developing awkward gaits.
I’ll stand at your front door all day
ringing your bell

You call blood closer to the surface of my skin, where it dances in milky threads.

Love is suspended in a liquid containing
dissolved proteins. Salts, and cells, salts, and cells, salts, and cells: a specialized bodily fluid (technically a tissue) unwinds along the primitive curl of my belly.
Plasma is predominantly water, and everyday almost I stand at the Lake’s edge, watching densities scallop and whisper about the future.

Love is regarded with varying levels of disgust among world
cultures, including the substances that have left the body; I am considered unclean, ephemeral, profane, although there are some sects which smear cremated
body ash on their foreheads as symbolic gestures. When I dance I puppet the air. The aim of these rituals is to remove specifically defined uncleanliness prior to ordinary physical impurity, such as dirt stains; nevertheless, all body fluids are generally semen and menses, which are viewed in furtive glimpses (when you pull off your shirt before bed).

Due to their symbolic nature, there are hardly any limits to carry the departed soul to a safe
afterlife or to the special gestures and words,
recitation of fixed texts, performance of special music, songs or dances, processions, manipulation of consumption, drugs, and lamentation, obligation, denatured alcohol, and preferential illumination I scandal casually between thoughts. As naked as the day is long.

I call the universe, but I don’t expect it to return. To subsist by small amounts.