PORTABELLA

What whiteness is the strait ribacge
of the sky (a crime suffocating
catacombs beneath emulations of aim)

that we undulate like water molds
over emptinesses that impress
charms into our hands? A cessation aches

or aids our fungal creeds; depths like
thimble-lit bellcaves for thickness, and

you, who assume lucid husks, kick random
passions into umbrage, wetting the eggs
we've both thumbed through, soon aggregate.

Garage-bands of girls groom themselves on
a dictation traded shorthand, as if circuits

in the cuticle range pain this precipitation.
We know better; you, who massage
jaw-broth of my bitter towers' slaked

gravy-valve, come to me in hunched boulder
itches, begging me to sift your flesh

for warmth. Selfhood, as a motor of my tongue,
omnivorously concatenates an apt frill on
dishes that remember asthma; thrillingly patient,

you medicate my spores.


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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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