When I first began my fascinating study on the effects
of local
rainfall on genital shape and compaction, thousands
tethered like
cattle, herded like sheep, appeared to me in pre-dawn
drowse-
dreams, wherein the silent room and the breath of my
mate mixed
in a drizzle of soliloquoy with vague shapes lucidly
drawn on the
insides of my eyelids. One version, called Doctor,
mimicked a
Rogerian psychotherapist, one that brushed my teeth
quite
regularly, listened intensely for the muffled hum of
fascination
growling on the other side of the line. Peter Ganick
said: and
doesn't the treeline instead look like someone took
bites from
the sky? I try to imagine that shy mouth, often paired
with
descriptive skill. She said: your genitals, at rest:
great
whitish flowering room. I, too, took it upon myself
once, heaving
it up over my chest to hurl at the taste of tobacco
mixed with
drizzle latte almost too late to save the heart
beating; the
heart just pumelling your poor stupid friend to mush.

=====

http://www.lewislacook.com/
http://artists.mp3s.com/artists/385/lewis_lacook.html
meditation, net art, poeisis: blog http://lewislacook.blogspot.com/


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