Postmodern Poetry - Xanax Pop by Lewis LaCook

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

I can hear conversations through
the window the voice of the people
elastic in phantom melody

I prepare my body for aesthetics
muscles clustering in sullen knots

Here in lorain we steal copper tubing
we steal metal we steal tempests we steal
something to define our bellies

as summer blurs our idle talk Why
don’t you know what a beautiful

and dangerous animal you are Pouring
cannabis out on an oak desk
for sorting out luscious green wink

You know that’s just where they join

God i am so sick of the misplaced anger
of others pricking simple ranges of trains
all of us slippery with images that save
the periphery repeats itself in focus

But god who has time for that bullshit
of others picking limes out near the tool-shed
of love and i goto soft decline each sentence
passes over me this fragrant beeline ben-10

I’ve fought my share of aliens too god
not to mention all these pictures of dead weight

God i’m going to sit up straight now
and it’ll be a tight fit this july’s end snow
on my body all a frizz all a fluted throat

I’ve started to love tossing and turning.
Sweat popping from my pores like birds’ prayers
taking flight from the marsh of my skin. A heron
curls at the ends of the bed , an error

The earthquakes are out in full force today,
murdering soulful intervals and lavishing aviation
on these doleful growling houses. Cicadas cave in.
In bed I’m translucent and murmuring across

I span every lucidity. I’d love to get started
on feeling, on seeing through my wet wings
into the steaming mud and bucolic latticework
so I can find that restless fulcrum again.

I’ve started to love wrecking your car.

Everyone’s mad about enlightenment these days.
A good dose of amphetamine injects a swirl
of heat just under your skin—surfaces dew,
become frictionless. I’m writing specifications
for web services I won’t use. Children either wake
slowly or a wool of cinder smoke chases sentience
over pitted plaster walls. You can’t miss
their footsteps. I, too, would like to avoid writing
a bestiary of noises, but just to let you know
I’ll need words, and that’s fucked up. If we could
pass scenes through skin, if with touch I could
teach you by flows. But then we’d all be dead, like
those frogs, you say, membranes so thin
poison passes like a breath. Oh well we’ve all
gotta die. But then I say, Not Really.

There’s a giggle that rises while I serene
about scenes outside my window on C Street

They say the city’s dying and I too am on
loan from somewhere But someone below my window
sings softly into this vivisected morning

and the notes what holds the notes together
Where is the difference between a melody and a chord

Kittens bat whatever can be found on the floor
around the house A wound I’ve long cowered in unwinds

Untied hunger and thirst As it’s just a giggle a crack
of sound in the shift She’s sewn her summer dresses
up around her head Walking fields

When I can hear the birds cars growling down
C street and Florida Avenue tiny high-pass
lengths of rhythm walking melodic lemon
naming kills some of us in some small way
but small ways walk us upright man in a white
wifebeater slicing edges of his lawn trickles
down the curb cigarette balanced in his pinched
mouth spitting out white wives of noise whole
loaves fat with sunshine I can hear the birds
pick at them

You wake to nausea a negated sea and the clock starting over and over staring at you across much earlier than you’d like. Earlier your ears remembered the alarm going off and debt haunting like traces of semen pulled over your mouse pad like you moved there, but of necessity performative, neither from nor to but inhabiting. Well. The burned are already whispering to you those secrets that recoil while firing flames gnawing at the mid-range in her belly of sounds. But why does the first connection attempt fail? Because of sophistication testicular references enhance nascent craters arching busty like a parsed vellum a level of velor and unbridled candor or abandoned. On between as in and or among. Fucking time-based art you wake to, a nigger sea is me creased and siphoning left feelings eating others’ regard for me the wastes of some distance to love up on ivory stilts. And on her belly of sounds. You’re rigid at the gears that arch her back along an engineer’s ocean. Anyone can have a word-processing. Well, the burned are up and at it again their gain flailing knobs and flooding headphones while uploads whisper those secrets that recoil after pressing on with the business. Oh, there are many wonderful things to worry about! Like kind of partially incomplete. SARS. Upturned leaves today give the appearance of immaculate dogwood god-hungry jackal, slipping orbs almost Orphic but moodily ore your ears scream, screw your ears. Damage like this is a diamond to spell check. Almost anyone can have a habit of word-processing. This avian flu has come muddied with dust moaning yellow bathes in salt last month the whole belly of sounds bean tucked away in raining folds thickening rapidly. Damn! Tits are a lovely reminder of gravity! But it’s only a lake as of yet, here where glaciers must have you on the coffee-table. You’ll maybe spend a few hours on your ivory stilts maybe walking or lurching through cities the crust removed and so exposed soft bread fiber at fruit. Having a sudo bash.

Oh, she’s got this beautiful tapering down below! You wake to now slowly wooden swollen fists. Later on the alarm has rungs.

for Mary

I wish I could tell you and I wish you’d
believe: there’s nothing here that’s thinking
when I stare out across space. Ask about

my ideal self all you want: I’m always nude
to the point that is everywhere
with no circumference. I’m just like you.

I know everyone’s fucked-up and sinking.
I know everyone’s beautiful with fracture.
I love that I dive those slow depths across space

and that you try to follow. I can tell you doubt
is the loudest crash and the softest liftoff.
But I can’t tell you my name.

I’m using a copy of Lyrical Ballads as a doorstop. It helps breezes circulate the carcinogenic heat. It helps me think.

Honestly, I don’t need to think so much. I brim with fleshy flowers; they bend far below my eyes, breathe the waste from my lips, pilsner lipids to indeterminate points of refraction. Confections tumble from slits in the hot white sky; they collect on C Street in crusty puddles that serrate reflections. When I examine myself I find that I am sharp.

When I pause to listen to the birds I see they’re singing love songs.

The air becomes difficult to move through.

Coughing sweats out marijuana and amphetamines heightened like a cat’s skin impulsive and propuls’d or lonely like a car pulling up in front of the house flattening talc birds. Everyone’s walking the weather crumpling shadows of full-bloom’d leaves strewn on C street. There is also space as that architect’s empathy thaw’d the rawness in the throat or lovely like a car stepping out from its driver as becoming sanguinely precipitation.

The shadows of leaves are like a cellophane. Everyone’s pulling over their own eyes the seizures amounting to toll.

Something everyone wanted to tell you is: let me be kind to you let me a rain aim’d across the intersection. Let tens curl rust like lifting quadratic tarps. Feline impulses received among sore nodes thicken the difficult to move through whole shoulders of fields of orchids of water. Everyone’s inflated taste buds.

A morning on which I swallow an orange capsule and smoke a thin joint and read Mairead Byrne’s blog Heaven which is and slit my eyes over the ashes on my desk and think about John and his bitterness over visitation and wonder how odd it is to be older and more feelingly open to contentment and Leslie married to him now which is like a low TV on in another room of course and I can just make out some words but really its static is like a razor-blade pillow elementary mellowness and of course the trouble blunts nullified or moot on these gregarious mornings on which I read Mairead’s poem “On Being A Recluse” and want to tell everyone about how that’s when the animal is moving through the room in which you sleep and damnit I don’t want to fight with anyone and damnit why can’t I have Hillary AND Obama and the sun through these late-spring trees is all I know or need of love and then a morning on which I kiss the void laughing and tell it I’ll be home for lunch

I sleep with a picture of you under my tongue
running through my flesh like a fire through
cornfields—When everything I touch
curls in on itself, contorting to fill
water’s physique—as in ripped paper, gels
bubbling—or you could find no more
words for it, that day your ears bled
laughed and turned back to her reading

If only that had been the end of it–
noting these submerged systems, clock’d
lusters soaked with chlorine, enfeebling
the coals your picture becomes of me wasted
pounding out hot tortilla on the rocks–
If he wanted to do this he shouldn’t have sent
that letter his own father a companionship order

She gnaws liquid images, queues a full moon
just atop your ashy mouth

All we’ve had to work with lately
are these gray days like walls

mazing our emotions
When it rains I question my faith
in punctuation—nothing in this world

is so elaborate as this breath
curling through this still house
so used to abruptness

I wish that rain went right through me
and I felt right enough to kiss

She hangs a heron shower
curtain while I organize
web marketing (below certain
thresholds the kids erupt

through the door from school like
schizoid noise blooms) into campaigns

I’ve grown accustomed to this
detachable head. The company
advances across burning, bringing
(i don’t care what the syllable

counters say, i just work the irritants
out) quicklime wires hold me

warm