Postmodern Poetry - Xanax Pop by Lewis LaCook

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)