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 murderous love burning your boots and your hair it's there; 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 in red hope falls rain sweet on the tongue a disaster movie the light redeems the sinner all our bodies shivering in the storm *** it's grand 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. it's grand, 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 knowing you 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; Was jealous. 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.
0 Comments
|
ArchivesCategories
All
|