Robin Wyatt Dunn lives in a state of desperation engineered by late capitalism, within which his mind is a mere subset of a much larger hallucination wherein men are machines, machines are men, and the world and everything in it are mere dreams whose eddies and currents poets can channel briefly but cannot control. Perhaps it goes without saying that he lives in Los Angeles.
bane rike and roll
holy show the dole of a terrible love
a terrific and death defying love
burning your boots
and your hair
the name of your death
under your tongue
the monarchy reruns the night
over the street Los Angeles
over my street LA I run the night
the monarchy reruns the night Los Angeles
reruns my night Los Angeles
hope falls rain
sweet on the tongue
a disaster movie
the light redeems the sinner
all our bodies
shivering in the storm
the existential waiting room
Sartre's maudlin grumble transferred to LA
my hay is sun
but my gun n'existe pas . . .
C'est moi who cut the tongue out of the star you tumbled around with
this old Hollywood festival:
mute, he is much funnier.
a fine excuse
the abuse you give me like dessert.
I suspect you know how much the pain is worth
when compressed into dough
a fuse is blown inside your eyes
when you smile
cut me the dollar on your sternum
and I'll flush it with life
rife with fluid
and your eyes
burning midnights over every century
keeping me hot
the weight of the dark
communes in the deep of your heart
are only your bones
and some fragment of your voice
caught in a mountain
Nearly died once;
Maybe it was another time.
May be the ghost knew who I was;
I too am a jealous ghost,
Keeping inside in the dim light,
Listening to music.
Whose face did I wear, when I was screaming?
Was it his, or mine?
All those dark hallways and misfits and the terrible knowing story of the lockup.
We can recognize each other,
After we close our eyes.