Postmodern Poetry – Xanax Pop by Lewis LaCook

She feels hot sickly through my status meetings. Boo the volt-furred black cat arching across deep leather trunk-tops surveys the trees clacking just at the edge of our vision. How I pushed my fingers through your mouth! It drags, all the secrets still asleep beneath her heated wings swinging hazily. Zebras and amethysts trill that way in the night, forcing my skull into lily-daubing bows, lips printed in a fade on you. You arrange densities, temperatures, textures around yourself. You’re just staying warm. I try to stay within the lines of baying yellow ohms into freckled houses, but a coal-loud tolerance relates a need for cigarettes as I pass on the street, as anonymous and helpful as any folded ghost. Zilch you know about sephardic. Zip, she motions with her eyes. The shallow fevers break on the North Coast.

There’s not a goddamned thing CSS Framework you can swollen with obsolete maths. Coolness seeping in curled streets through smudged brackish veins drawn tight against window. Dirty cobwebs rustle along dripping mirror the day’s no plates on the outlets’ resonance. You can swollen veins drawn tight seeping in curled goddamned thing. Point the mouse limp on a burned tongue inside the box and, creamy blue world of iconicity, click! The lights I clench went parched out rinsing in his soul. Sure, I curled streets through smudged brackish plates, but I was mistaken on the outlets’ Framework Coolness. Y’know? I’m dedicated to designing, creating and manufacturing branded products that motivate, communicate and educate.

I’m sitting around this room like a wet envelope exploded. The furniture in flux elongates to a mournful fruit. On the stream they’re informing me with hope that the first african american attorney-general. The first dark president knows the deserts I trail through this morning-hollow house. I stack smoke on sunshine; I’m fresh out of arguments for myself, and persist roundly.

I’m starting to understand Mary’s satori. I’m sure this isn’t the first touch of a void on feeble glass. She falls into it suddenly, among the roar of truck engines; don’t you get sick of every gesture meaning? That there’s an ugly romanticism in these contussed panes.

Spheres rescue the brunt of space through rupture. Just telling you that, I pierced pinwheels, tacked up maps of alluvial voluptuousness. Look at this box I made you. I was too tired or too fucked up to make walls.