The first pressings of my hair start in the game of
rain. Once
you move one chip to the right, hoping to second-guess
what first-
off wills itself florid in masks, a reversal waits
behind the
slamming of limpid doors. As predicted, the sound
quality in
these early recordings leaves something desirable on
your bedside
table. Last night I stroke you deeper, pinning you to
the
softness of your own overgrown flesh; we harvest
celibacy in a
garden of lapping pauses, such and so many of the
tongues of
silences cracking our names like walnuts on the shelves.
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http://artists.mp3s.com/artists/385/lewis_lacook.html
meditation, net art, poeisis: blog http://lewislacook.blogspot.com/
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ON ROSEMARIE WALDROP'S LAWN
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Type: discussion