The Ghost

The ghost of throwaway lines
visits me deeply covered in

sleepiness. Wavy respite waiving
like narcotic medusa-hair in

my face. I have "sex" with
my face, shrink-wrapp'd o'er

and embossed with novel coupling.
This makes me squeak to kiss

(milk and ice and size and shelf and tomorrow or
frozen and tomorrow and freezing or throat spores
spill lipid quagmire jettison flavor across police a
dream of feta throng gunrack in the turnstile lurch
apt choices filter choler and durable ephemera or
luscious and gamey. It's true she networks with text
and I didn't see, staring up at a rusting sky through
the spectacle of lake caved in on me and I am juicy
winter arid like palms burnt flung. You know numbers
power front-end associations. All of us need that
space epoxy wan marbled all gigabyte distrych fellatio
rinse. You know all numbers to that power halo zip
fields of _root. And yet I "have" sex with my face,
duplicating an inexplicable palpitating culpability.
Trigger or blowfish swollen size and dithyramb
matrices television like tinfoil tulip spectre
full.frontal clarity along the incomplete agreement or
union of you and I after work not speaking but the cat
is snapping into place or the mirrors throw up a
chokehold on sanctuary. Oasis, the cherries were,
festive venn flux.

Today I woke up and. The storage of take away this
blindness sips from look I try, things shelving fat in
my face shaved of its sheath and no-one. None. All
the taste drains from my mouth. A shrink-wracked
charcoal rose of chocolate sores percolates tame
emerald rafts of fittest quicksand whirlpool
gimlet-in-cheek trained on crossing hairs with you in
the evening as the sky oxidizes backwards into male
and female tabs for the cat. How else fit in this
ground? Blown powder crushes shed bone dew on plastic
agility chords. Awake now, only eyes walking, sliced
cold: crisp pints rotund with ingrown pocket mirror.
The chokecherries of sanctity indemnify bank loams
with throttle vomit cleats. Venn, I sled, honey
masterpiece in ego goad, coding cashflow into sob
acids that identity horny dawn flaws in flowered
obstacles. How long will you stay? I guess days banish
shimmer nettles all across a deliciousness of the
backs of her knees. Squat a while away in text
networking, playful spike looms on which children toss
guidance like sniffles flirt onion nouns)

my fate, tables bludgeoning
real sirens in so early a morning

only commerce is awake, and trucks
growl the red snow we need. Moving

on, a ghost of strewn lives sits up
in the middle of a night of fever, hands

bandaged from glass. I pull them
out of you; cover my face like a mosque.

2003/01/23 06:10:00





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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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