Sunday, February 18, 2007

Letters to Underwood

Dear Underwood,

It was a high-pitched screaming. The semi-colon is often accompanied by a conjunctive adverb. What they hear are linen masks mouths-mimicking sounds. Shivering shoulders question the boundaries of incidents. Elle wears a hospital gown and surgical mask when we fuck. I witnessed a car accident from my bedroom window, but do not feel like participating in fault. Give me a high E. This is dissection, without it we are soundproof wooden blocks with iron wiring. Finish writing him before she returns. The paramedics found him with a detached exhaust pipe encasing his erection. Elle is not used to the east coast. Watching the snowfall she deteriorates into a microbial puddle. I am too young for the postmodern narrative. Rub her head until she falls asleep to dream of California incubated. Her spine is mesostic, an unstructured diary. Press firmly against perennial to prevent ejaculation. What happens to money in wishing wells? Lay on your back deeply desecrated by trash media. Some of us were abandoned at birth. Drawing naughty sketches, she tells me how bored she is with her bedroom curtains. I became vegetarian because of that thumping sound, followed by retraction and fading groan. An empty hospital bed faces a transparent wall. Luscious.

1 comment:

timarmentrout said...


This is very alluring.

When Angie goes to med school, there is a room where the walls are made of encased body slices...say like if you sliced one up like a loaf of bread, turned the slices to face you get to see sections of certain body parts, etc. The major organs neatly split open...
think of the possibilities