• Abstract and Figures
• Public Full-text

hot alignment of elements Poems 9/2/00—10/26/01 Lewis LaCook POEMS Lewis LaCook 9/2/00--9/26/00 IF MONET COULD PAINT THE PLAY OF LIGHT ON YOUR LOVELIFE... Are you tired of waiting at home for that Girl to call you, the one Who mentioned slightly that you were the one More than any other she'd like to Hang out with? Try an angry Early morning call. Tired yet of being The last to know it's all Over and done with, while Eclectic on the bedroom pyre where You're burning away all your Hopes that it'll turn out Right, someone will love you surely With your curly hair and bright blue Eyes? Try burning holes in your arm With your cigarettes, and early morning anger. Or could you burrow into, nestle into, yourself One last time, where even the silhouette Of THAT'S insecure, as if Impressionism weren't so Dead after All? 9/2/00 CATCH A FALLING STAR AND PUT IT IN YOUR POCKET In a little comparment by the side of your bed Hidden well by turbulent sheets and vacant aroma Is a pocket of air you call Your Breath, and worship Religiously, with no small sense of regularity. Some men don't even know it's there. You, though, Warrior with your emotions, discovered it long ago While still a child, punctured in a huddle with Blankies you listened as it slept in the most awful And complicated piece of your bed, and knew it was Someone close to you. It's at times like this you Hear your father die over and over again, each Fist in your heart clenching with memory. 9/3/00 DRIVING CRYING The moist portion of our day that's Covered up that former humidity that Made just bathing a sad rumor of force Used to strip the land of its resistence To waste has once again drenched our statuary With the tears that Law waters those Untrusting flowers with, salty turns. 9/4/00 M & M In the morning a darkened bass punctures Subwoofer eardrums, pounding the frustration From the grit and the gravel and the pavement. "I don't know what else to do," it says, "All I got is concrete and circuitry and Things gone wrong and fear of women," Which is all understandable. But it's Not like you're starving for anything but Faith, and it's at least ten degrees Cooler outside than it was, blasphemously Sunny, so birds too bob up and down To the beat of your fed-uppity box. 9/5/00 PROMETHEUS AND CYBERPORN When you drop that volcano glow And its orangeade sprawl aquiver with rust Swims around my body like its own mottled air, I break the studs in the walls with my clenched And gritty expulsions, imploding At taper to the dead-eyed bottom of a stare. And when your lava abrupts into a spire Of thoughtful venusfreak slenders and partially Degenerate ecstasy, The candles in your bathroom that lick across The clean water of your hips slowly withdrawing Rise from their beds of vague krill, deluded By spinning lovewords wording lovely in finish giggles. This is where building is always tragically invested. The only thing I'll remember of these gothic cathedrals Is the warm perusal of history stoned, an atonement For all the unity that inundates our cursory camp. 9/5-6/00 SUNFUCKER Let's try to look at this rationally, shall we? A blindspot inhabits the quatrains with comfort, More wet bed than the average bear can snake. The voices in the other room skyrocket, grounded; They refer to things, or maybe things refer To them. I'm not quite sure, can't Remember it exactly; everyone was talking at once, And one coy girl in black whose eyes I'd had On and off for days was pulling colored scarves From her pores, which I could notwithstanding Hear, Notwithstanding. Like going to a class You haven't studied for builds character, so, you, Majestic and indefatigable in your own Quiet way, can no longer visualize content Strictly on the basis of where it's at you'd like to Ball. He's developed the saving grace of not looking back. Once I seperate intention from act, or courage, the Theaters unionize without the proper permit. I Don't want to talk about it right now. There's a good Chance we'll end up winding back and forth over zephyrs Thorned, sideways and vertical, mastering our abbatoir At the same time he pulls that days-old knot of cash From his wallet and throws it before the clerk, trembling At the hole in the scenery the word "clerk" leaves. Luckily, in this case the clerk is our old friend Cacaphony, which means "Dirty Sound" in most romance Languages. The Marquis concurs. In fact, the Viscomte Has drawn up a contract in which both parties, if Pliable, would be granted sovereign rights to rubber Lovin', as well as water fountain privileges. Because Sometimes I'm just done and wiping my chin and walkin' Down the hall and something lucious in a wide-leg Bounces by, and I'm floored, dude, really. Eileen Had these drawstring pants...but we won't get into That. Just remember, putting new arms and legs on Your dolls after a while becomes disheartening, Re- Moving that precious cargo just to the left of your Chest proves useful in the harder sciences; is There any room in Mathematics for romance? I once had A girl who said she had me. The pimple Is also shaped Like a nipple. Early on today I finally figured Out that I want to Fuck The Sun, which would make me A sunfucker. Thank you. 9/6/00 THE MCPOEM for Tiffany...because i can be a royal asshole sometimes... I wake up with a scratchy throat on the morning Of the eighth, and Slump over coffee and cigarettes in the beatbox Sun. I wake up with Inflamed medulla and dissonant framing in the Afternoon of the eighth And no-one tells me when I'm wrong anymore (except Dana). Shortly later I tire Of attacking my surroundings with the scalpel Of solitude, and morph to A febrile communist leaning supple into pubes. Such difficult drives, all unlovely gravelled, Lullingly overgrown. Does Alan Sondheim of Brooklyn New York already hate this poem Because it loves narrative and also loves The tones that narrative leaves on the tongue, Somewhat (in the McPoem) like the shadow pit a lover leaves Long after your bed is cold to him, when The Censor takes over, swinging thick black lines Of musk over your choicest parts? I always try Not to be seen because I don't always try To be seen. That's one way to do it. And yet THAT doesn't solve the problem either, only Gives you time to think about it (you know How I feel about this). But that has nothing to do with you, Who are beautiful and young and rising above your priors (Your parents) which was probably easier for me to do Because they'd been transparent for a very long time before I felt the first fingered breezes of what would later Disassemble me in their resemblences. We've both got a Long way to go. I apologize. Language falls apart. 9/8/00 PORTRAIT OF LADY D What is more mortally serene Than this seriously dimmed light of Summer's ashes, rounding out The leaves' screaming into Rust's bitter colors? Ophelia afloat In a raft of pure and porous hair Fills like a patent balloon or empty socket The very margins of your fingers, trailing Into elliptic water. You forget What you were going to say, which I wouldn't Have heard anyway over the curl of the harvest moon In the baroque waves of your body rippling To accept this speech. Time must be allowed To bend somewhere, so that in the Greek the Bull's horns inflame the sky with a Schoenberg Static. Tom's models are modal in his Scuffed jargon; mine, too, though You are the only one that, purring, sees Lilith in the crystalline peripheries Of your bedtime aphasia. I'm stuttering These sutures of texture rapacious with Beginning. Long lines lead to Digits swimming in an orifice where Starlight's cropped into torrid mobile Angles (it's like climbing Pyramids step by step and hushed Gushing of plentitude, blending With cigarettes what ciggarets Suggest). If I were to draw A cariacture of you from words Cooly translucent on diaphonous tablets, You would be Athena of the light brigade, the Sorely touselled woman picking up her over- Turned groceries in the street. If I'm to Be here for a while, I'll Listen through your skin for the devil's coat of arms. 9/8/00 PRACTICING RESTAURANT We were going to record the crickets at dawn Rilling into crepescule And you were going to sing a seed-pop Three-chord Voice-track for me to pillow with Keys, Each one unlocking the rush of the lavalamp Warming up. Instead we went to dinner. It was after midnight. Instead we went to dinner. Not much was open. Walking across the parking lot was the same parking lot We'd always walked across, but things are different now. She's finally started to be nice to me, and everyone Remembers my name there. I know you. We worked the barter out to where An eighth of weed would get us five Oxytabs, and at least Two of those can get you Morphine.

Load more

  299

Copy Link