The technological Judas delivers no kiss

by Samuel Derrick Rosen

I do not need to learn, I just need to remember.
The devil is too busy to appear
at the grand opening of your conscience, as I
circumvent your gypsy eyes and sacred claws, you are
a necessary exercise in futility, as I,
in a god-approved state of homesickness,
disregard plasticine models representing astrophysics.

You are a walking piece of art, a metaphysical tart,
steeped in anarchist federation laws,
partially driven by a semi-covert
sycophant machine, to strains of a treacherous
orchestra, tied to deep black mono resonators
installed within a multimedia burial ground
surrounded by telephonic ruins and radioactive codes.

Fallopian tube connoisseurs and transparency advocates
seek asylum in secret police states. O miss congeniality
of the slightly unhinged, there's no welcoming committee
for disciples of the new renaissance,
your ambassador for the naked
is the protégé of a modern-day Moby Dick
swimming/drowning in strawberry jam avant-garde jazz.

Suffering side-effects from a sudden burst of monochrome,
your anime philosopher of an 8th continent
will never reach even halfway between the gutter and the stars,
your Humphrey Bogarts and your Spencer Tracys
cry profusely in sub-tropic environs,
your Deborah Kerrs and your Lana Turners
develop an intolerance for make-up application

in the dressing rooms of the wish to be
in the matrix of the antithesis of the newest equilibrium.
This, the end of the marshmallow investigation,
the media whores and their analogue masters
have nowhere to go now that the rabbit holes
have been filled in indefinitely.  Passive bitches ride
the mono-waves, broken lovers of a future fetish,

sell their souls for just five seconds of summer.
Midway through a weather manipulation experiment,
mojo evangelists ride the neo-
western express, film-noir college professors
fill the amateur theatres, plain clothes detectives
are prophets in drag, tortoise triplanes
inch across the deep valley broadcasts

of the penultimate rapture, toxic jackhammers go
at the all-night vigils, at the end of violence against the amoebas,
to images of meta-suburbanites displaying amazing dance moves,
there's a constant, auto-pilot reflex
of the sixth dimension, there's wonderment and awe
at the discovery of electricity as nerds pay homage to the
maggot-drones and tai-chi driven doghouse sweethearts

pet high couture gargoyles come to temporary life,
to the stop-start static of the final revolution reeking
of murderous pacifism, to harlequin operators
of the 33rd degree, to bridal shower melancholies,
to retarded rhapsodies on a Rubik's cube, to low-fi circuses,
to gluten free dolphin boy dogmas, to acrobats and illusionists
carrying metal briefcases that require passwords.

Pigeons hover like uninvited guests over an elusive chord.
Hemlocked witches fight against gunpowder residue.
It's just crossing onto another plane.  It's just like going to sleep.
You are under the treatment of the doctors of delirium,
led to the ultra-fundamental, anti-inflammatory union of genius, to the
ornately framed images of face tattoos
that hang in the gallery of post-modern art forever and ever and ever!