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Stockholm Syndrome in Glasgow


by Samuel Derrick Rosen


Tell me another Descartes joke and I will
cease to exist,
among divine preoccupations across the
floors of the factory
there is one true epiphany, colourless to
an extreme,
red and yellow won't suffice, not even blue
or green.
You talk of personal courage
but you suffer
Stockholm Syndrome
in Glasgow, where the chickens are
put on trial,
and the hawks and the sparrows are
persecuted by default.
The entomologists no longer in a rage,
they are under
 
nervous exhaustion and look as if they're
loving it, they swear
there is no gain in exploiting insects. Ye
grief-stricken sweetheart
of the crimson reawakening, ask me a huge
and complex question
that will take me an eternity to answer, or
bequeath me a free ticket
to your melancholy show, or
make me a murderous fucker
who has just given birth to a conscience,
or display to me your
subversive art of midnight, or read me haiku
from the mouth of
scientific tyranny accompanied by the
 
concupiscent thrum of antiquated machinery.
Can you resist the
irresistible urge for utopia? Can you cross a
revolutionary road
congested with heavy traffic? Have you ever
seen a street transform into a river?
I so wish to be an object, please, just once,
objectify me,
on heavenly tables in tidal zones stand
cosmological decanters
around which Paper Mache princesses
organize mock funerals,
dressed in silk suits and carrying
perforated umbrellas,
hieroglyphic beings
walk around in Russian circles. I have come
 
to know more than just the
nature of the beasts, more than anything
primitive in a glass menagerie. And yes,
there is water on Mars
but so what? There is no such thing as
an empathy machine. My bitch
suffers separation anxiety
and knows no social order
nor reinvention of bloodlines. Me?
I am just waiting,
on the inevitable explosion of the zodiac
zombies
of the sub-biblically and trans-electrically
anonymous!
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