Postmodern Poetry - Xanax Pop by Lewis LaCook

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

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