1.

Summer afternoon in a quiet apartment tarnishes
quickly as the corrosions air will swallow lonely in
an annul in way. Plumes and pulp leopard-print raw
mind there, without thrall. Anenome moans, almost
porous with mis-typed nouns; facile with wraiths these
edges of new talking to her. You earn the nursing.
Running just beneath respiration, arid drawers that
sambo and clatter.

Bitter thunder, a virtue chorus a fungus, garages with
dips to accept or the corollary: capital pacifies,
oceanic: blood like a lizard, dervish or delicacy.
Your anemia shouldn't frown, because a mouth is so
much less without her. Earthful.

We like the troubling drums.

If I could tremble, ledged somehere fine beneath her,
in thirds would be enough? Here? Somewhat turns all
the colors down on rainy days. Able to, like
lengthwise upturned, as if not knowing any judgement
definitely a reqium somewhat. Desensitized to orgasm,
as if a saggiterraneous.

The motherfuckers in charge, it's kill or be killed.
Yellow hose sore. It's wholly erotic, off-centre but
necking, hardcore; SummerQuiet on a within of gross
remark. You think I'm just fucking with you? Pins with
cloud eyes won't know a hurting night of hungry
nothing: no: just reflecting.

Loose, but scuffling: judicious dross.

Some words just don't belong together. You've never
looked at a wall peeling with paint, you said; you've
never desperate traded. Keep me in the loop.

7/21/03



2.

WinterMute always had to repeat himself when he
explained it to them. Across the backyard, in the
narrow swatch of grass that seperated the two, one man
had coated his window with tinfoil. Leslie
hypothesized he was growing weed. And yet every window
you tried in the place was dark; WinterMute could feel
them buzzing to get in.

"I must have watched that yellow hose for hours. To a
beat," WinterMute was telling them, all the light in
the empty room weighing his smile. She wouldn't
understand him, quagmired as she was in him. Sometimes
she would flail, held so close there, and sometimes
she would even fly. "I remember," he was trying so
hard to smile. "You were there, and you, and you."

"Goodnight," she said. She'd never been that good at
decisions. "Don't stay up too late." In the dark you
messed up, all the time. WinterMute thought about the
war. Who were these people, he wondered. Why?

7/22/03




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NEW!!!–Dirty Milk–reactive poem for microphone http://www.lewislacook.com/DirtyMilk/

http://www.lewislacook.com/

tubulence artist studio: http://turbulence.org/studios/lacook/index.html








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