29.
Walking down a wooded road
after midnight, until you hit
frequented streets
is a synthesis of sex. Streetlights
in parking lots alone
alternate amber and
a frigid blue. F. W. Murnau
steps through fireworks
of puddles into
WnterMute's autumnal speech.
This is how to beautify
your syntax: rolls of love
and involving lathes
think as you vellum
in a parch. If I could patch
us up again, what I'd do
is suffer less, try to learn what
won't numb in words, try to flower
mathematically if I can, with
no wit of pleasure in my petals.
There's this awful tension (it's
night, and I have no hope but to
smoke milk and drink cigarettes, cast
from such polite society as a pieta
stippled with raucous syrups, as
simple then, and protruding
in my landing in fists across
the back of Maggie Evans, TAKE
THE KEY AND LOCK HER UP! But
I hope that because you had me
before this, long before my terrible
injuries made me reclusive and
corpulent, long nights of vowels
can pierce your tongue, to pleasure
with solemnity, those portraits I )
within me, that these words are
dead with me, and I float face-
down over your hair, kissing your face
with my dead lips until I learn to
blush again, and everything's
less still, less sacred. Sitting down
a mother's couch as a bed
in the same light in a room
everyone wakes up in, my index
finger fumes with nicotine and
malaise, I am again your clever
sophomore, not a dumb hulk of
brandy beads and satyr, writing
his suicide notes in chalk on the plains
of plantations and concentration camps
and murders that leak computers
into an ever-thinning air. Vestiges
of gentility still
paw these rotten
shores. Horizon
almost low
enough for notes.
I strip, lactating
purpose. I postpone gender. You
adore in vacant colors nasal drip
as a sign your body wants to live
badly enough. You are sugar-poisoned–
blue and red and wet in the morning,
you
don't move. I hope these words
find you well. They've been
so hungry. Armitage, too, though
the first thing I remember is the
sound of the lawnmower coming from
the houses ahead of me. And then
Jean knots this simplicity, this starvation;
starring at your hips, not limp
with strange fertile juice, but
heavy with it walking home
wishing I was walking on a red star.
I fell in love with a girl from Mars,
a raw sonic dithyramb, a meter
both alone and gathered in sameness;
I narrow in dim rooms. Why do I
like it here in the dark so much, I
ask Willie Loomis, I ask Aloysha
Karamazov, why do I keep my head down
and my eyes averted in the presence
of crude projects women, cellphones
poised over barking mouths, fleas
biting my shame for them and for
me so infestested, horny for the blood
of Isabel. The cat slinks across
the carpet to me, watches me with
a plaintive sigh. She, too, slips
across the mesh sequestered and
soft, a puerile lollipop, when all of
Renee apart is tart tongue dictation,
some translation of breath thumb-nail'd
and aimed straight for you, to
lie over her face and shield her
from this dumbness in me.
I've always wanted to be light.
My horrible injury subjects me.
=====
NEW!!!–Dirty Milk–reactive poem for microphone http://www.lewislacook.com/DirtyMilk/
http://www.lewislacook.com/
tubulence artist studio: http://turbulence.org/studios/lacook/index.html
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the 29th sky
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Type: discussion