Postmodern Poetry - Xanax Pop by Lewis LaCook

for Lindsay

An animal backed into a corner wounds the future. Continuously pushing backwards with the legs, it would be much better to learn a fight since the fifth grade and that was against a girl with an image of an elephant behind me. A wounded animal with its back up against you smoldering lost sparks crimping the moon behind swift salmon clouds. The newly freed rivers ran unpredictably; sometimes swift, sometimes sluggish as they braided from the clouds all perfection at once. Do you really think I’m worthy of time? Copyright law wasn’t written with today’s content consumption in mind; how adventure travel kills conspicuous muscle for numerous tasks like the human consequences. A wound in the back of every convenience store could be heard intermittently flushing the plied ice of latent plows.

In an interrogative form, addressed to you in order to get information in reply, the silences display themselves regularly throughout my day.

for Lindsay

Please forgive me if I slip below. While you’re drawing mustaches on everyone’s religion. Forgive me vents trickling down the ashy aisles of your volcano. You trace panic kisses. You who are this fearless cloud. Forgive how I jut lit with trolls over silk water. What are you sprinkling. While you’re thinking about rolling your own. What can you forgive. Meantime I’m cross-legged. Charcoal laughter. Please forgive me if I don’t look at the light. Just to climb up that hill. You who are this inflamed slumber. Empathetic daughter. Forgive me if I’m drafty. The mustaches are all three feet high and covered like Yeti. Wolfman’s white lips.

I’d give anything to be your sketch-pad.

In bed with Reverend Powder, pajamas tangled between her knees, waiting for the heat man, stealing; in bed with my mortality, pagan in the face of listless snow, waiting for comfortable confinement, bleeding; in bed with Lindsay Morrison, my heart pulled up through my pores, flowering like a blindness, frying; in debt to limitless emoting, in debt to those contorted in my tribe, in debt to carnivorous blessings, in bed with agate tans, in bed and on top of me, in the devil’s lesson-book, on top of me and through me; in death nipples egg, pajamas tangled around my throat, on top of me throw me away, on top of me kill me; when you crack an egg the albumen trickles across your fingers, that is the coldness affixed to my cock bleeds essence, when you crack an egg and the juice runs down your leg; pulling, bursting, tightening, furthering, twitching, blossoming, thickening, conjoining, convolving, commingling.

Baby baby, baby baby; pajamas pulled back, drowned in oceans of her turbulent hair.

Let’s pretend you’re alive enough to read this. The top of my head. Weeks-old snow pulls back to reveal fangs of grass, almost shocking. God is watching us. I’ve had it up to here. Of love, of baby monsters. Lindsay is now a part of my day-time consciousness; like a pillar of room best viewed through a door-jamb. I think of us as baby monsters, flaming with laughter. The staging server. I murmur over cotton in my sleep, flaming with baby laughter; black cats curled around her chest. Do you have any insecurities? Bitch, please.

Today I am playing with chips of tile the color of thoughts, the brute force light of hot cat on nipples.

Droplets of silhouette wet a slack monitor
I process security as an ur-text with bacchanal kelvin
restlessly decimal and passionately velveting
Safety she breathes through an open phone line
as warmer weather drags salt back to leeching basements
Everything I know about it could fit in a lax outline
Thanks for getting me off she says
The hottest spot on the human body dodges me
and burns docile trains into my eyes
I couldn’t be more inconvenient to her
There’s a complimentary ring-sizer on its way
but the path to her door is up swept with galling pavements

Death here pounds up the stairs bursts through my door
and screams into my ghost of a face