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After getting sober through a bout of Bukowski


by Samuel Derrick Rosen


The cyborg death squads are out in force
The lovers say that everything
is botched assassination,
that we are all subject to the
mystery of the sphinx.

Someone's always listening
to the pointless rants of a hanged man.
Not so much a loss
of mental faculties but a curious case
of Alien hand syndrome.

A masked theatre camaraderie implodes,
tygers unafraid of the city lights,
kill-thy-mockingbird pantomimes A to Z,
meditations on apple cores, chemistries in decline,
the

this-little-piggy social clubs in the making,
hyacinth movement, geranium inertia,
antique ponies, storms of embers,
the workingman's tango, the cosmic Mardi Gras
(never-ending in the eye of itself) fuel the cruel
 
fruitless fires.
Hopeless seekers of elephant graves
feed microchipped souls in terminal upheaval.
Gyroscopic dandelions
foxtrot across the countercultural heavens,
 
mock attacks at gravity
inside universal basements
where geeks play bingo and sweaty palmed monks
engage in fist fights.  God help all the Jungs
on the verge of infinite and ruthless Freudian slips!

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