Postmodern Poetry – Xanax Pop by Lewis LaCook

Dear sirs and then the house was bowing with people mike and jason and krista and steve and junior and jeff and alex and i watched bloodsucking freaks and the first nightmare on elm street mary drifting off smooth white among scales of clouds flickering down on us like late august snow electric in my head kelvin the drip sour chemical vagina my face so softly in it down the rabbit hole that mike slid through aiming for the heart hitting every nerve dying to know what time is and why it’s so important or roaming through rummage of shreds cigarettes hermetic just wanting to be gone for a while mary held the brilliance of everyone’s fear and told me that shame i feel i agreed to long ago is not a binding contract at all but expansion across the hips of night sliding down the front door no screen to hold it back and you aren’t angry when a frightened cat hisses are you not too perfectly natural perfect though restless though coming now to caress my failures as in others to touch just once the brief halo of their lights strung through those droning halls i hope the little baby don’t fall don’t forget to leave your body intact in some small way where these emptied stones enact air from the pertinent renditions we who heal continuously through the rabbit hole aren’t angry when a kid in a passing car throws something nor will John Coltrane suck the brackish berry a fresh cigarette explodes in the back of your throat while mary for a while digits carved in white desert respiration flutters with alien lights landing on the back porch scalded by lop-sided devils and the sugar the plenitude sharp like cocaine’s drizzle and lit up polluted tools like you all a sudden woke up in the midday heat threatening leather ceilings ideals diluted but i hope the little baby don’t fall i hope mike and jason and krista and steve and junior and jeff and alex scented and to hang restless though restlessly perfected gradient tepid with pillow gregarious is not a binding contract and now i’m in breach here and there modulating above us undulant you’re so fucking dull you’re so fucking dead inside here and there a wall on each side you look through so you cut yourself away in broad slices from your reflection to hang in the back of her throat kelvin heat desperate purring lithographic kiss devil fences segmenting the screams are my segues for pushing the epic out whole of my ass clenched listlessly pinkened by the model the little baby fell on top of gritting my teeth either i rest or i serve such severe choices oi such cut and plunder lust without urgency or self-interest just practical in temporal amorphous fossils i’d just as soon run away high so i’d always come home low and yellow and chromed inside like the dogs had been at me for a while like the ghost of something earth swallowed up long ago long ago his saxophone screaming his sex seamed and long ago long ago long ago cach’d out and dripping cinders into an ashtray standing by i just stood there watching the street and spiders or i was ingesting through this thin cloud of skin what the sun was today oh we all know better now how it’ll kill us we all know better now better now to be cloaked low to the ground and then sprinting take off high better now we all know polar shift polar reversal fins spilling dull death as cut into what our cells remember of us after the organs collapse softly in a drip across mary’s back half lakeside trestle pellet leaning annual eulogy gelded but stole bitch punting mine killed in too slugged glisten trail this many feet away

it has come to our attention that a world without impressions just got paid according to her cellphone alarm is not working properly rapport scanner flat lung clasp cannabis wisteria mysterious simulation not as alike as one would think slow burn patience paper tastes likes ass but below black christmas the carpet of winter desolation rolling into september belting out saws in the distance moaning raspy morning clutch coffee fungus clasp window’s reflected rolling off the screen

Last time in this cricket-soaked world you were given to know desire caught isolated and synthesized like arcs of capsules sullen or emaciated an abandonment dream shakes the gentle rolling of sleep respiration you struggle to repair vivid jack-offs everywhere or jacks off everywhere i guess you must be studying to be a saint asshole the dark robes fallen to one side sloping to one painful white breast searingly eloquent while torrential error messages lizard the back-formation spaced barking banks of tough dark river virgins pray like sufi cross-legged and spinning no-noise to return to that world without impressions ripple-less fell into that hole that’s only myself sinking past distinction snug in the jack to everywhere thing at one once again

From: Jane Kauffman
To: webmaster0o0atjdarchitecture.com
Subject: Is masturbation wrong?
Date: Wed, 20 Aug 2008 08:39:06 -0600 (10:39 EDT)

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As mentioned previously the hips of the mother can also fly on the wall soaking up clones or knowledge woolen with these muds once suffering fetid elegance at a fraction of the glass half glazed with joyful explosion of exponentiation gradually fibonacci on the trestle raised for repairs further down the brown tracks scarring sewn fields alone all the time especially inside the storm raged for you too sleep witches in quavering gothic foi voix on a bed gripping my tired islands closer to the chest closer to the chest closed for business as the next closest thing to finishing time off the bastards who want to fuck your life for less than you’ve given i wonder what the poet does in lieu of breakfast saffron dust falling seeking the where of that huge vacuum noise brimming and writhing against the eaves white filed lighter sparkles lemur footage biting down high on the centipede you can match the buttons on a shirt from either end stupid shrapnel sewer truck linux i have to be here receiving frail phone calls from this static leftover cold and foiled unfurling to catch desire shot through the inconceivable artic of space

FYI i wanna beat most people up from
slavery and into the frying pan slick with charred gore with a reach
extending far beyond someone’s distant entreaty knock on doors of
abandoned sex elephants slinking through glacial woods where nothing
much happens passively as skunk’s tail voltage gags on love lesions
on their voices incessant visigoth on film so oily with plain text
and games in ascii decoder wakes up in an abutment on summer storms
shivering in borders on rotation this month so the body gets treated
with lillies cupping wildernesses of gender protrusions confused by
the shallowness of venison pools concurrent worship pills or fats
blossoming without conscience upon the mother hips that toss me
around in your sleep

did i mention the reflection of the
moon as whorled in a skunk’s tail flung like pink toxic nightclouds
lush along a pre-dawn walk to the convenience store held a séance
here in this room along a sunrise street washed in ruddy pastel as
whorled like burnt eyes flummoxed at the suggestion of control’s
shallow voice buried in the strong burning hair aluminum shirtless
now that powers of evil exist to portion a totality from these
ephemera morningclouds silverfuck’d so afraid you wouldn’t hear me
calling you fat light tall through endless thought’s treeless
irreducibility much like duct tape or paper failures cares and cares
and cares reflected in waving tops of trees parsed to cool limbs
encircling curled inflation a skunk’s tail electrocuted by i don’t
know what

i’ll let you know about heat the teeth eroding erotic decay and decals strewn wet across moist flooring breeding blind white flies tossing and turning flames rolling against your throat sinkhole in the middle of dreaming knives in a pile on the horizon rotator cuff his speech impediment roaring in sunshine’s midsection sensual like a tongue in syrup my blues my huge oranges and hues neutered by massive drug tolerance toltec wisdom she nudges the monitor to face her kissing memories long past expiration dates hung low and iridescent from trees warped or bowed from too much talk to them across a field cracked with shadows who seem to know my name and hers too as if flung so effortlessly cascaded blitz fallen suck from vague curtain embers along the desk’s li po sinking as he tries to hug the reflection of a moon