Postmodern Poetry – Xanax Pop by Lewis LaCook

for Lindsay

Oh, Becky: you do quite beautifully
arriving at the show almost bare chested
setting such luscious fire across me
I feel like I’m talking too much
and Ctesias must have infected me with Indica
because suddenly I’m a dog-faced man
chopping wood in the pinched bank of Erie shores
I swear I remember the glacier
and how the pressure built a slow heat around me
every time I sink into your soft mouth
My cock, perched on your grandmother’s steering wheel,
becomes so wholly yours almost at once
I’ve been living off the meat of the re’em so long
your oranges and cantaloupe trickle through my beard
and sugar on my chest like pricks of lightning
I lay awake dizzy nights listening for the cry of the monoceros
as it gallops through the harmony of our moans

Leave a Reply

You must be logged in to post a comment.