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Tongues Tied To Anchors – Laurence Lillvik

Tongues Tied To Anchors

Tongues Tied To Anchors is the first collection of poems by Laurence Lillvik.

The poems were written in 2009 with the goal of one poem a week.

“Tongues Tied To Anchors” is amplified to rock. Laurence Wilhelm Lillvik (“Sparky” to his friends) dream bashes nuns and makes a lasso from Claudia Cardinale’s eyelashes, neither of which is an easy thing to do, but taken together would seem impossible outside the realm of his poetry’s astounding imagery. If you don’t buy this book there is a good chance I will fight you.” James Greer, formerly of Guided By Voices, Spin, author of The Failure and Artificial Light and the forthcoming rock musical Cleo, directed by Steven Soderbergh.

Support independent publishing: Buy this book on Lulu.

Excerpts:



DIY She applied bacon Grease to her pressure Points, lay naked in The muddy pond, and Waited for the crawdads. I Blame The Antihistamines Dawn has nested Upon our calamari Scribbles. We are Catching on, and on To the drone-kissed Cliffs we sail. Sirens dislodge them- Selves from monoliths, Swim beside us, tongues- Tied to our anchors. Beatrice, release the Alchemists from your Lover’s inferno, for Little clock remains, And we’re poor match For this beastly scrum. Cape Disappointment Moored to this Bird-shit rock, In this sea-sick fog, I can’t see the stars, So as the seals bark- I reach for my gin-jar. Empire Building Her client, the imperialist, woke jealous Of his neighbor’s wind chimes. He found Her business card used as a bookmark in “A History of Land Mines.” He lived next To a Latino family who sold warm Budweiser To crack heads and college kids after hours. She urged her client to research the climate And name his moods like the weather bureau Names tropical storms. She said imperialism Grows where crops fail and then works its Way to the equator. He said he was pleased because quinine was such an excellent flavor Agent. She’s taken to wearing a pith helmet To their bi-weekly sessions. Yesterday it was Their bird bath, he said. She smiled and rubbed A lime on the edge of their highball glasses.
Inherent Deprived of another child Bride, and universally regarded As remarkably functionless, due To permanent state of empathy, He impregnated the Venus of Willendorf. Now, dipped in The sour milk-bath of millennia, We can argue the angles once Shrouded by ancestral detractors. But we won’t, will we?
Still Life (After Death)  
Scattered amid the
Actual wreckage were
Thumbnail sketches of
Inclement intentions,
Skull-sized bilge-pumps
Leaking amniotic fluid,
Eight pounds of lunchmeat,
Mini-cassette recordings
Of axe-handled threats,
Photographs of nail-bitten
Hands with peeling polish,
Probably pre-teen, whiskey
Tumblers full of potting
Soil, and page after page
Of stenographic paper
Smeared with muted lore.    
 

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