by Samuel Derrick Rosen
Such pretty dogma, a voice in sleep
stutters a wakefulness, clings to the Gothic
like a warrior clings to war.
You wear the gown of impossibility.
Before unfinished works of suns,
perpetual irises, wonderful, mad,
armed with such superlatives
I heap praise upon your pineal gland.
First upright, then an elegant crawl,
certainty shall not enslave you,
the ambiguous liberates beyond sublime.
Your dream stretched out, a succubus.
You are best when clinging to all things Gothic,
something that doesn't command new eyes,
where the flawed are dressed in resplendent garb,
before crystal and iron and accident.
Shall I spoon-feed your Victorian mouth?
Tortured mysteries. Thin hellos. Dense goodbyes.
Will you then take me back to
where there are no arrivals or departures?
A world forfeiting new invention,
so full of clocks, so fucking ageless,
shimmer false mirrors of Man's suspense
until all appears to flatter chance.
I stare into your orifice, see a circus metamorphosis!