Postmodern Poetry – Xanax Pop by Lewis LaCook

Rain-slung in haploid arcules
I mostly tar moist soil, curl ruts
the turrets and the hamlets do
vaporing the river-winter tilapia dinner
weeps scores of rice at seizure limitlessness
How dare you scowl
error’s romance novel on vowel axle
got aid zima please zima frost’s nozzle
eloping pizza mezzotint amoebas
meaty neon, ow ow ow ow
Sun-shrugged with oblong fitness
see here bitter furling ruffian sleeves
panic like pack-mules graph-limned
simple
Pills echo cholera aerosol, sun-plump

Plain excuses and me; yellow uphill, shore
vacant and cavernous sulfur purr like
browning or gaol; improper suction
Pregnant tasteless smokeless mastheads
yelling they’re yelling they’re yelling
it’s okay she said it was okay she said
Whole lords of fonts not docile, but nubs
The fun ends in my skin; I fund you
below the lope and snarl of a day’s brunt
If I could close everything around me around me
and quiet like sprawl grass; but you know
Everyone else is okay with everything else
but you; drilled yourself this bitter whole
in the center of a room at twilight
Plain intrusions, trusted suck
which must have something to do with you

Cats are falling all around me mostly like snow
and it might as well, legs wracked in surprise cold
after siren springtime teased me out of toilet paper
No-one wants to die in the thaw, but at least
I’m wearing pants, hard blue sweater Mary gave me,
blew my hair up like a juvenile success or a maniac
Apparently arrest is a pause that glimmers Milk
for all these unspun babies coiled atop comforters,
the very sum of stretching out, of toothy yawns

Oh! Rain’s elliptic translucency clear through
days clotted with trowels, traffics wrapped snug

and the birds are out afterwards, lapping at
the shore—Before you judge me, remember, torsos

elegiac and gently so snow on Kingsbury and glow
so you don’t know if you force eruption on those drugs

but you know what she thinks in blue—The rip
of meat, ganged-up, on, at a gallop—He’d watch cars

and dry off in the transgression of laying brick
and congeal with crystal singing

I tool the human out of fulfillment
and the Luftwaffe soothe shoals along
her shoulders white or gray with
the world—Ball-peen spinning some shine

out of gall, asleep in the asterisk forest, filed
teeth on Tiny Jesus cool to coal songs
white or gray hot—Every muscle’s alignment
dusky with cloud-fucking—I drink that milk

You’re one of the good ones, mother-fucker,
eating cake out of a paper bag. I sit in an
English garden waiting for the sun.

But you haven’t mastered everything
almost like chemicals singing to your
flesh—It gets to be night when it will
and you want to shock-haired slink a

round cold brickling buildings—Trying
to touch a face long burned up by ab
straction by alchemy—But yeah too
mature to drag these cherished images

Behind you the elemental comforts
doled with no touching. You moan.
You raise your hips above the line the lake

I’ll beat it all down until it worships me–
I’ll cringe when it suggests to walk by