ROBIN WYATT DUNN - didderedidder

​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. 

​didderedidder

diddereedee
no one heart but me
afraid
the names of places I have been
some of them imagined

there are rhythms in thoughts
like in poems
they come from a deep place
perhaps it is under the earth
or in the sky
perhaps it is some other place entirely
unreachable

perhaps it is very close.

wherever it is it has a sound
like a drum
like the heart

whose speeches in the tide of the day
are many
and slow

what is the language of the heart
and why is he keeping me here to prove this message?

what kind of a thing can it be that he wants to prove
painting this reason over the cover of land
to know who made the earth or why

what kind of a thing is it, this drumming
skippering over the dimples in the dark water?

it is what legends wreathe around
like the roots of trees
leaning against the color of its sheen
like a woman on the shoulder of a man
or a man against the rock

the colors of the light are everywhere inside there.

this slow drumming
the speech of Hyperion
John Keats' Hyperion
shining like a three-ton light over the Mediterranean
Colossus
the signal lights are shining

their colors are like you
touching the world