Trees furiously rusting. Now, Brittany thinks, sighing
soft
mantras on digits to the curve of her breasts, which
in
silhouette amble forth like an odalesque repealing
appellate
justice, like an honesty of juice and sliced oranges.
Yes, Brad,
now the trees furiously rust, and continue to do so,
though
warnings of soft skeletal awe memorize harsh shining.
As for I,
forget it; ego and eros are not synonymous terms. It's
hot when
we wake up, our sinuses curling, and Renee rolls over
to Lewis
with her shirt half up; he readily wakened, weeping
velvet in a
pit of his own winnings (neurological): he jazz lake,
he lurk
straight, he row fake caves through the soft palatial
tissue of
her mouth; molding moon in it, waxing tide in it,
washing soap
until it codes docile and solvent, voting. "I'd like
to buy the
world a coke," Brittany moans, and when Brittany moans
a small
very firm crystal chip learns primate behavioral
patterns by
leaping through bonobo speech; "Jesus," says Brad.
"I'm hanging
around here like I stole someone's holy land."
=====
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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THE HONESTY OF SLICED ORANGES
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Type: discussion