The cries of peacocks It's my own ghost I can't get away from.
Living on the high wire, the cries of peacocks
mold your babies out of the lichens
I sleep cradled in, candles lobbing gardens
into my dreams. I tamp a cigarette out
and ripples plume like the mooncalf's
nipples, fat as apples,
waiting for teeth. Your night sirens like to ride
etiquette and property, muscles stung and greening
bulbs break pendulous earth, mocking hours.
All night long. That morning, the lowest octaves
came blushing through your gardens, shelling milk
from pods where clocks seed the bedroom, upchucking
stars. Think of my phenomenology
as menagerie, bestial catastrophe,
lets you ferment and pass away.
Lewis LaCook
Director of Web Development
Abstract Outlooks Media
440-989-6481
http://www.abstractoutlooks.com
Abstract Outlooks Media - Premium Web Hosting, Development, and Art Photography
http://www.lewislacook.org
lewislacook.org - New Media Poetry and Poetics
http://www.xanaxpop.org
Xanax Pop - the Poetry of Lewis LaCook
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