That slender streak above the window-curtain tells me by its degree of brightness what sort of day it is, and tells me the mood of the morning even before reporting on its sky; yet I could do without it.  
                        Marcel Proust “The days”
 

 

Sleep considers fluorescence.  Jumpsuits parasail among clouds – roar of toneless constant.  In each centigrade prism the seductive option of answering “no” belly crawls across grammar for our spooning together, or “what shall I liken you to?” But pork torsoics; lip prattles of light rain atop iguanas or “what is most important to you?” which ornaments in heat as swollen and ample papayas.

 It is morning.  Sleep as thing < place. Pronounced as “S” = Lull > the wh-question of “what is going on here?” or hues ape haemorrhage; as if we flock glottal; our lit spooning twist flex cuffs in fingered lakes.  As if we are what coils-up: ill lips on ice.  Each breath swig: osmosis. Each glottophany: a hunted deer across a shallow.  Gosh, oh my gosh flexcuffs torso – doing the wet look – rouge and in heat, “or what can I liken you to,” but a yes please, that sunk my battleship.                 

This is morning and time to hide as one damaged roadside fridge, full of what I like and what I do not like; of what is good and what is bad.  Tendons grip lower crisper drawer; behind lower kick plate a palette kicks around hung drool; a sashay of “this won’t go down.”

Mourning the missing heat between two forms, this sashay of morning, cools our relation to carnage of a slow built heat.  A heat unlisted in meteorology, twists beneath sheets, a leaf-like swim in calcite lakes with one body splitting melons on the shore. The body is the temperature of fingered Crenshaw.  Corpuscular heaves a knock your socks off echo, calm, or clammed-up in missive fits of remains found without clothing.  This is morning and time to wake.  

. . . . .

The body is the temperature of sat-in chairs.  
 
A treatise on light begins and it’s not even noon yet but light in the motion of some sort of matter, of amphibians in lucent pools or tadpoles refracting gaze with gelatinous wiggles.  A whole lake is imagined in the early morning.  There is light fog from a heavy rain during night.  The lake has flooded past its boundaries and then retreated again under darkness.  What is left are hundreds of puddles before the lake shore teeming with forms.  The word “refraction” is used as rayon, or the double significance of ray of light and radius of a circle >  the set of suggests or the structure of crystalline bodies + slick catfish agitating the soft morning light with a strange velocity.
 
This is landscape.  Ventricles and no stones.  A whole shore of bodies, tremors of one body, with fingernails intact, but contusions over sternum, which give-out no sound and no rise to light, even as movement of a hand in the air is not capable of producing sound.  
. . . . . .

The body is the temperature of lawn.  

A study of legs is turfed for ulcer.  The body is opened by the usual Y-shaped incision thus WH-as in-“Well, we’ve got a live one here”  [W] ind farmed by the blower; mucosal carousels music box morning.  This is morning.  Brightness
begins obedience.  A quick nudity. The gentle movements of gardening.  Things are beginning to heat up.  

We speak posed loops of small bowel: sweat, absorb, to wake.  Morning.  To give heat to our spooning.  As if we are projectiles, cuddled in dense fibrous tissue.  Wrists coil flexcuffs.  Our lips spoon ice; ill-lit flock twists caught in each of our glottoscopic fingering of lake: “I will bring you to some water lost in your memory.”  Lips as slender lakes; teeth as cool sea-mammal piles, unreasonable, reckless, yet serious in the hunt.  

The body is the temperature of fracture

yawning    

through and through
 

Joomla SEF URLs by Artio

Buy Lana Turner #9

Issue 9 is HERE!

Order Now

@ltjournal on Twitter