Mina Loy staring through mesh at wooden stars. Some
semblance of hypodermic memory, of a fluid she caught
somewhere in her throat, mussed and tassled. I was
wondering perhaps if those clocks that climb through
walls scarred by nicotine were in fact the apparatus
we would be breathing through this evening. No-one
could reallly answer her; the sky, lanced with crystal
hairs of lightning, acknowledge these fastened hours
in which, just by listening quietly, sound became a
long insect rolling loudly through the hallways,
beyond touch.

I love most, when night is electric, weeping makeup,
throwing my hands through the tattoed and aroused
vectors of her skin. Mina Loy, staring up at the
ceiling, jackandcoke: each time she thought to lie
back, sink into the lattice of dark fingers stretching
her across luscious ice, the lights came on; everyone
danced the electric slide. I know what my life did to
me. She twirled like the limp of a baglady, lagging,
gutted by years that drown so sweetly in this wind.
And when Mina Loy finally got back, she brought
Anemone to tears: everyone could hear them breaking in
the hallway.

Will I always? And if so, what exterminator could
judge her right?

Nimble, with sour assonance. As sardonic as nights
gingerly swept from the awe of your coat.


=====


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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