 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. tell me how close it was was it close enough to taste? or just a kind of memory half asleep? I know it was some kind of sickness, paid giving birth quiet in the night a little blood and a little sigh. tell me what to do about the stand I have two acres or so inside ranging from my hands to my face a woman is a kind of thing we kept the din in dark bark and bread. the bailiwick beneath her bed the burial chamber of her quickening hand. tell me how you came and when the numbers of your dead tell me where you'll sleep and how's your head how're your arms and your face how the numbers read you here and led you to lead us bright and blind over the ledge I knew every time you said it was dead that I was yours clawed into the wool of your nest for the feeding carry me dear how close to think the nip and tuck of the divine wind starving my flesh to sleep all the parrots on the hill are in chanting my name what is it again? Robin Wyatt Dunn like a seizure on the boat stretched between oxfordshire and coventry watching the light blacken and rage the engines in my hand, weirdo
knocking the breeze with my teeth hardshipping sun braked to carry all the marvels in my face: near the valley of your desk the books collide above your head steering into your mouth one by one we'll fit them in inch by inch to count the oceans in your fleshy face for the photograph. outside in the air all the students listen in for the professor's welp red faces nourishing delight weirdo, summoning the day around your neck we'll arm the peasants with some songs and a little dirt for their nails the negative face of the silver sky shudders to our hands
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