 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. guard and give the ghost its payment penny ante up motherfucker every ounce of your strength to goad the monster in the pit ***no graceless run not any wake we're dreaming in denial running so fast to the sea heading off the sleight of hand in our turn around the sleigh and seed ***death waves his mighty hand shaking the nails parting the stems baking the bread every day death waves his mighty hand awful and light bare in the hour and the minute watching the city run past he takes the wave out of the air to fete the city shaking his arms stamping his feet death waves his mighty hands signaling the shred of doubt over the whirling bend above he's shaking his ass in the dark ***one when two only undo and make ten make anything yours pounding your fist into it over and over box and break the alms the ace and calm stained grace over the fence over the mark the end's in sight but newer charts and hands mean everything is a divorce walking me to standstill grog and gainful madness slippage and weight burying me south again and again identity's like that again and again again ***
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