February 23, 2010

Reverend Powder

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.

Share and Enjoy: These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.
  • bodytext
  • del.icio.us
  • Netvouz
  • description
  • ThisNext
  • MisterWong
  • Wists
  • StumbleUpon
  • Technorati

February 22, 2010

Baby monsters

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.

Share and Enjoy: These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.
  • bodytext
  • del.icio.us
  • Netvouz
  • description
  • ThisNext
  • MisterWong
  • Wists
  • StumbleUpon
  • Technorati

February 21, 2010

Thanks for getting me off

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

Share and Enjoy: These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.
  • bodytext
  • del.icio.us
  • Netvouz
  • description
  • ThisNext
  • MisterWong
  • Wists
  • StumbleUpon
  • Technorati

February 20, 2010

Syringa

for Lindsay

We climbed and we climbed,
Oh, how we climbed
My, how we climbed
Over the stars to top
tiger mountain
Forcing the lines through the snow.

–Brian Eno, Taking Tiger Mountain

There once was a chick from Fredonia
who had quite a sly way of knowin’ ya
She’d rawdog the sky,
clawing through such winter’s meat.
And I noticed that I wasn’t even high
today, just blessed with her and intersections,
so the trees just lace just veins just branches
carried the pulse of sunset over the houses.
It was ambient jungle, or cold lust all alone
after lying with her in her red bed last weekend
and awake, capable of such softness, afraid
if where we join unhinges. I’m healing, I notice;

though, being far from her, and in a house
where children scratch my eyes out over crushes
and their mother threads her hurt harpoons
trying to tie me to Gulliver. All I needed all along
was some understanding, a slant of oddity
colored from the inside in, deep peach and russet.
I might have a soul. If so,

it has been rubbed appropriately down
with drying rose-petal lotion, something scented
with tastes so saturnine, like lilacs bursting
under bare feet. How could anyone walk in heaven
and be satisfied coming home to broken windows?
Is god chipped wood and jagged games?
On Tuesday I went back to being an alien
paying for the crimes of convolved kids.
Vultures suture eulogies to me, loving up my dreams
until even vowels no longer grog my cock.
I wonder if she’s a mirror where even gender
crests, a crisis of a cinch. I remember when she
was on top of me, tossing clouds down at me,
letting them drip through glissandi fabrics down
drowning me back to life. If pruned, the plant responds
by producing fast-growing young vegetative growth
with no flowers, in an attempt to restore the removed branches.

The specimen curled in his amniotic jar
claws in his still dreams.

It’s because I grew outside the circle
of touches that I shrink when someone
nurses a runoff across bare stalks
reaching through to loneliness. I press
restlessness into my scrapbook, looking
out your windows at the gulf. It’s a cold
morning, gazing into the lake wanting
inside her as we pass a joint back and forth.
Why is the snow so fucking loud, Lindsay?
I want to taste like everything all at once for you.
Someone in this room is very afraid all the time
because circles are growing and eating us up.

Pardon my candor, Dr. Priddle,
but I was fucked from the get-go.
My sister leaned into my dreams as I wept
and I begged her to tell me how to be good.
I know what ‘good’ meant to me now.
It’s an aptness of enclosed, a pang draining
the clay feet out from under you, a bedful
of Lindsay stirring, one eyebrow scarred
from pulled piercing. I know the difference
between big wood and brush. The fists
he used to sculpt me from pulp molt
tonight beneath tears in the clouds
because Charles Darwin is crying.
For every adaptation a choice goes cold.
Because it was hard I am hard.

Hand over hand over mouth. We climb
because there is no place for us on the ground.

Lindsay, this is where heaven dreams of us.
Lindsay, this is where heaven keeps it real.
Lindsay, there are no streets of Lorain, Ohio.
The dead I remember are giving me the cold shoulder.
Lindsay, we’re not crazy.
Lindsay, this is what beauty means.
I’m giving fear a cute name to cripple it.

She’d crawl through the scythe,
and lay her sweet body down on ya.

Share and Enjoy: These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.
  • bodytext
  • del.icio.us
  • Netvouz
  • description
  • ThisNext
  • MisterWong
  • Wists
  • StumbleUpon
  • Technorati

January 26, 2010

Coming-of-age story

The father and the other father
study how to contrast
He always has a smile for truck-stop waitresses
He’s always gnawing on his hands
He lays on the floor to give me belly-island
He pulls me across the room by my hair
and calls me a cock-sucker
The father and the other father
learn how to sabotage my moods
He murmurs below my breath about how
no-one could ever love me
He fits himself into my walk
and tells me he raised a leader
The father and the other father
can’t know anything about me now
because they’re both dead
and I’m alone here getting high among
her valentines

Share and Enjoy: These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.
  • bodytext
  • del.icio.us
  • Netvouz
  • description
  • ThisNext
  • MisterWong
  • Wists
  • StumbleUpon
  • Technorati

About the poet

Lewis LaCook is a poet, musician, web artist and programmer who lives in Lorain, Ohio.

Categories