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Do not speak of love or death


by Samuel Derrick Rosen


Quit dreaming,
you're not a character
from a Kathy Acker novel,
you're not in any prison,
more like a museum,
whose walls should be a
little less full.

Not even the insane
would contemplate
the humility of dead dolls.
You took away God,
put something in his place,
something beautiful,
viciously immutable.

The human being not as complex
as the human being thinks,
energy dies
and doesn't always alter form,
sometimes there are no
particles or waves,
sometimes art is not here to
wake people the fuck up.

You're not Joan of Arc,
not Cleopatra,
not Persephone.
You're something irreligious,
chronically suspended from
the myth of a fifth element.

Do not speak of love or death,
of mute taste or blind touch.
The lips of your dream
press upon nothing.


Particles and Waves
 
 
Not Joan of Arc, nor Cleopatra,
or Persephone, something irreligious,
chronically suspended from
the myth of a fifth element,
 
something beautiful, viciously immutable.
In a celestial museum whose walls
should be a little less full, energy dies,
 
and doesn't. There are the usual
particles and waves, mute taste, blind touch,
chapped lips pressing on nothing, porcelain
contemplation, the humility of dead dolls.
 
There are mountains. There are rocks.
There is Laurel. There is Hardy. There is
Chico, Harpo, Groucho, Gummo, Zeppo,
 
and Karl Marx. A constant, and carefully,
regulated speed. A sea whose floor is cruel.
An eternal kiss upon a mythical brow.
 




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