Sienna Lapse

Stone head, deaf to onion finger wounds, peel the
moisture from models of political ports. Your eyes
sink deeper in your head as light like a fist
spellchecks moments in which the cold pills palsy
saccharine speeds that betray burnt hungers of sienna
lapse.

Stone head, I'll pick you up at the airport. force
onions into your fingers to lie to the dead. In order
to better focus on November, the cold pills lyricize
teeth like the worst of all possible headaches.
Shimmied to an artery deep in stone, you'll watch
everything behind you slip liquid reflections over the
screen from which you feed, a network (a curt curl of
algae, algorithmic syncopation), or through which your
freezing glides like glassy bulbs on thin rope
workspace. I like the ugly boots you've flung upon the
chair.

Stone ends of live webs, when I flinch from
recollection of unsatisfying girls ripped around
falsifying hymns with steganographic innaccuracies of
gaze, a sallow prayer reaches out for me. You. who are
balanced by your lust for typing, grow positively
ludic in charred chat response. I love everything
that could go wrong.



11/28/02



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Anningan (in progress) http://www.lewislacook.com/Anningan/AnningansDoor.html
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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