PLASTIC SURGEONS

She's hesitating at the threshhold again, staring
at me with those big green eyes with slits
up and down the sides of my throat, breathing
a descent into the male-storm (involving
recently convoluted flower stalks bereft
of flower-heads). It is not for nothing I

write you this, my beloved: in the hereafter,
white men crawling over continents (not theirs)
with religion crawling through their clothes
will stain most of this land with small pox,
with cholera, on both your houses, Montalban!
Rich leather skies stretch like plastic surgeons'
Wednesdays over the face of the corpse; watching
the ceiling billow with moneyed eyes. She

slinks up to her water bowl, no syllabl'd chain
choking grief from her erosion, while
these what are poets publish and sheaf the gulls
strained through hurricane libido.I'm coming, she

tells them, no longer allowing logic to scarve
a trail across her throat.

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http://www.lewislacook.com/
http://artists.mp3s.com/artists/385/lewis_lacook.html


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