She is a color. Behind all traffic, a blurt of
quietude in loading docks; men lift here, sweat, fill
their muscles with the air of her normalcy. Bach in a
G-string causals lacerating protrusions. Yes, you
mouth, I have your hand there.
A clarity of fog etches contrast on the city, which,
after days of cloudy pounding, was in danger of
wartime recession. Cesspool-hopping in clatter hoops
vents grooved ears back to fangful smile; cats could
be a type of music, a ribbon of melody tying your legs
so lightly together it helps you walk. In the morning
she thinks about the elderly, especially about the
rude old men who secrete disrespect begrudgingly;
predictably, dogwood strips white in the rain, hanging
behind your eyes long after slumber is done fumbling
at your zipper. What sleep sucks from you deeply is
not important. Only those institutions who as a matter
of policy suspirate gradient undulations may catch
wind of new styles of containment.
As much as you suspect her cleanliness is hot in the
center, fire in all its rude forms wrings essence from
quickly withering food. In my napalm closet, mist
courses through mopheads with a vapid rinse; cars,
peeling electricity from crudely fusion engines, rove
around volcanic corners with all the speed those old
barbershop towels save in shaving. Every night I wash
my face in the same dirty bowl; every evening she
stares back at me: surprised so many angles come
pristine.
I'm not picky about dreaming of car crash. Letting
this happen, along the sides of our sighs cerulean
patterns of sex. The wheels rattle, the hubcaps
wheeze, in your new job you do not matter. Most
importantly, it communicates emotion.
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NEW!! Alan Sondheim by Lewis LaCook: http://www.lewislacook.com/alanSondheim/
http://www.lewislacook.com/
tubulence artist studio: http://turbulence.org/studios/lacook/index.html
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Dirty Milk
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Type: discussion