"The robots comb her goosepimpled flesh. 'It'll all be over soon,' she said. "
"He slips into the hole he constructs of crossing over blackedout cities." "She's taking a lot of time giving him directions but i'm a cowboy difference" "Twisted rainbow sugar pours from his crotch." "Get it out of him, Ed!" "Another hour's not gonna bother me. With a cigarette. Whittling down. Between my fingers. Clenched in cherish lips snoring baby tense with clutter. On leaper pills. Don't jump pa! I love these scattered these chaotic machines. We're weaving. Let's build a family now Mary out of this moment poetry you're asleep. 'Do my dreams difference when i'm writing?'" "Nosebleed powder-powered fresh chem nipple flares just a minute of whizzie drooled all the cakemix you'd want." "Mmmmmmmmmmmmm" "The elderly. Sitting on the front porch now, coked and cascading, trying to understand the difference between her white skin and deep dusk hair. A lighter color pops yer eyes." I was sitting around one Saturday night, watching Murnau's Vampire, after having raised my voice with the kids, Jeran hyper/linked and coking a nerf pistol, my nose stuffed with all of it, dripping. There is a bronze light, an amber emanation, naming solemnly every object in the room. Count Orloff extends a cold claw. Mary Andrea, now I fit and don't fit, we kiss and I'm comforted, I am less afraid, though I should be. Wait: Blubber Boy's back. Framed in a coffin doorway. I was sitting around so waiting for writing this down to emerge breathless themes that explore. The tired. With that wooden Jamaican pipe loamy with cannabis. We have a fluorescent bar that spikes your eyes with sleepy liquid and your fist siphoning phosphor pith alludes. We were looking for birth, but all we found were the filled-in spaces between our silences, and all of us here, photosensitive, remain realistic. This text, for example, and its honeycomb curl to nowhere. This rosary hung over plaster, melting through your hands, whispering psalms. Blood on the backs of his hands. Light light light light light light light light light. He paused, allowing time for the brightness to settle. Once her muscles were as fluent and pliable as doppler gangrene elevating forest simples from dust to suddeness, he let his mouth thought calmly along her salty throat, throwing sparks into the night like a firefly apocalypse. The same situation, the same spot: I can't leave Inyuasha! Drawing schema, driftng through machinations. Am I itimidating when you first meet me? When typing, you don't dot your eyes. I push my glasses back up my nose, smile; the room's so full of dull moons counting noise, dull murmur ambulatory and balanced, the cars trill through ribcage cities just to sit here, or there. It's liquid fuel. I was sitting in Mary's chair one day coughing up cannabis. In their world, everything explodes; they haven't reached the edge of the paper yet, the swirls of thinner cutlet tilted but lighting times her all over the walls, asleep, bed of roof and furry dirt. Not fruit. *************************************************************************** No More Movements... Lewis LaCook -->Poet-Programmer|||http://lewislacook.corporatepa.com/||| __________________________________ Yahoo! Mail Stay connected, organized, and protected. Take the tour: http://tour.mail.yahoo.com/mailtour.html
