Digitated Lemon




Long-tapered tips, like
the tips of parsnips curling out,
pitted, sheepish portrait of
a “pregnant” sour orange,
“chimeric citron with excrescence,”
grave with exuberance.
I’m not comfortable with it.
Slugs of wood mimicking stone.
Stick bugs, caterpillars “in folio,”
that kind of thing
delivered in its hide, luciferous
borderline character roughly
incriminated paleo-
type now innocent
again but seeming so
binged in the guard hairs
silvering, stammering.
Not really an “animal”
I know thoughts in terror grow
their diverse spandrels.
But what was I committing
in the margins of,
enlarging parts
feared to be the true
under-numberings of?
Look at the plain monstrosity. 







Equivalents for a Megalith




Open the palm for its brazen cog.
Is it smaller than.
The exemplar.
Remember to take it.

Sanitarily though it groans and stings.
You gather the babe.

You wash and pare away.
The excess shoots.

In the stinking middle.
Plunder rigid with.
Varnish.

Almost contracted.
Stamens forcing up.
An intertexture.

Just the way the thing evolved.
Douce footbaths for.

The acrid ants.
In the entrusting folds.

We cannot know how far to the true.
One.

Is not an one.
But the figure furthered.

Up along its grooves.
The spires hatching on in.
Sheaves.
To make the measure of. 








Joomla SEF URLs by Artio

Buy Lana Turner #9

Issue 9 is HERE!

Order Now

@ltjournal on Twitter