#laura glenum

[sorryimnothererightnow]

Visit Original Link

Alina, Do I talk about this a lot? Is it like I'm old and telling the same stories over and over again? If I say something like "this poem reminds of the Blood Brothers" am I repeating myself? I guess what I mean is it's viscerally surreal, it's ornate, it's excessive, it's dripping with something shining—jewels, various fluids, scales, molten rock. I have no critical faculties for work that hits me like this. It just registers as pure sensation. (Even the art on the cover of the book is like the art from Burn, Piano Island, Burn. What was in the water in the early '00s?) So enjoy the sensation. It can't be paraphrased. Love, Thomson (The Hounds of No is available from Small Press Distribution)

[tracydimond]

We need some beef-relief. I think we’ll drink His cream. I think we’ll starve & roseate A morphic resonance the size (I think) Of die. Swans can cream, too, inebriate Of why. Do only we disjoin our lungs? Will the howls overreach me before we Can take off our skin & let it be hung On a mannequin, spritely fitted? “I Traffic no cadavers,” said the owl & ate my demi-monde. (“Why go trilling Into? & spuriously creaming!?”) Our skull-bowl Is a fountain of electrodes, killing Nothing, nothing. If he is swan & roseate, We ovulate skeletons & language cremate.

"Crushifix" by Laura Glenum in La Petite Zine