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Long Ride Freewrites

by Madeline Lamb

I.
bong-bomb howl:
A 1960 prayer
a number, a time
our lunch is dressed modestly.

Swan-rock shoplifting,
beat off, beat kids.
Ginger topochico, bound to sliced hips and lines.
I am airlines, I am a seat.
JET, openfaced father of these words, wants a return in food as I loop however many hieroglyphs.

II.
Beat-off! My last hookup was lies and masturbation with another set of holy-god-you're-dumb-lips: I am forever a princess- too haughty,
bedded on a counter.

My bone is the turn of my waste: echoed, hollow-hallowed eggshell clavicle.
rhyme, reason, ribcage.

III.
OURS IS THE GLORY OF
THE KINGDOM OF THE
EARTH AND TOKE AND
PARTY TO DEATH.

And my nails grow like bon(er).
Cock of whitman, soft & hard-
penis of inemnitable truth-
this moment is my life.

My life is the sky, is freezing
compression & idle conversation
Beyond this: Pele, the pacific
I imagine myself on a raft.

IV.
I am possessed! I am the id & ego, I am the continuance of things. My beard is pubic Ginsberg, each incomprehensile finger and hair is Whitman:

I am cool and composed as I stare into the eyes of Genesis.
Genesis!
Site of tears and oral-sex on counters! Site of lost names, site of bummed cigarettes.
Canned coffee, nervously-held hands and confidently-broken hearts.
Drugged-up drunk in lights & sweat and costume: no one cries quite like we do, left in a hotel with 2000 others and compressed in a mind:
Miniaturized animu Moloch.
My lovesong to that which my crotch and clavicle dash against the scared hands of
couth & truth

06/16/2010

Author's Note: I'm hitting the road again.

Posted on 06/16/2010
Copyright © 2024 Madeline Lamb

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