PULL

THOMAS COOK

The carpaccio, please. My teeth. I ding the glass. The shoulder. Reaching
for the stoplight button, I dropped my bag. A seamed cushion. Your hair,
your volume. Twist a fattening bucolic, toes to the sky. When the columns
purchase an hour from the light, I am the stuff of blighting unusuals in a
quincunx. Gravitate with the lane. I will take a sweet dough with things in
it. Bowling the frank lip of the crouton for salt. Why can’t it be my dish?
Snicker cleft. Sucratic and under. Juniper berry split. Undotted fat caper
and vital flame. Grill mark. Calisthenic chart blank. Various flouncings
across. Complete insect. Motion reproof. Dalliance betwixt firth. Bike
lock. Wearing the cloth home. Clipping short waves from the ingredients.
Hairpin milk. The orange should roll because it is round. Bend and flex. A
knee outside the human body. From words to scents. At some point I need
to say: destroy me. At some point I need to say: I am overcome. I took a
position on element slaps. Here I am. I love you. The creases should not
appear. Even against dark. In your own words: what is the brother
farm? An assault on the stationary floor. The gathering middle. Pray the
field clean. Ceramic salsify lies in light. Velvet falcon buttoned in pearls.
To your mouth.

THOMAS COOK lives in Los Angeles and edits Tammy.