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.
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.