16.

F.W. Murnau thinks in red strings.
Gesso, or some swung impact,

the essence of a finger
touching blushes from sullen nests

he wonders, pressed once again

like this bruise, this shade of a bitemark,
Barnabus leaves with twill gifts.
Sure, I thought you were some twisted
of a twin of me, annotated
maybe but quite seperate and
almost crystal.

Don't use the word, "nude,"

while my elopes scarp pungeant,
almost your diaphonous pageant,

and then and then and then and


=====


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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