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Friday, July 1, 2016
PHILLIP MATTHEW ROBERTS
Turing machines and consciousness
interrogated by soft illuminations
cast across infinite darkness
Imaginary lives necessarily dwindle
embodied inside their tangible counterparts
that suffer reality's unbiased empiricism.
Blessed readers who embrace lasting words
strung indelible into crystalline phrases
possibly honored for another literate generation
or as pearls trampled by the unclean,
to unlettered dilettantes with cloven
hooves who trample their own
dimly vacant, din echoed pens
of uninspired contagion.
Queer pleasures rediscovered
pouring residues of lust and pain
into make-believe vessels bereft
of every emotion whatsoever.
(To computationally generate sentient
holographs with the innate capacity
for genuine feelings--Turing
reinterpreted in higher dimensions,
ever reinventing unanswerable questions
amidst hardships of a de facto realm.)
A shame my atom-counted arms
cannot reach beyond sedate graves.
The irony that my mind not only can
but does so often,
channeling your radiance
(ideally sans magots etcetera
limited solely to feasts of the dead,
false beauty inert in one's empty flesh)
I abduct your image again and again--
hid in isolation that's not coldly platonic
even though we're all objectively
summarized by geometry--physical
ratios barely above automatons.
To taste again your lively kiss upon planes
where some modicum of choice
allows for Monad love.
Notice once more the iodous dusk
stretched threadbare and tenuous
as a single life caressed by fate
--immaculate light that steadily fades
into a drowsy de profundis gaze…
Falling rain that beats upon my eaves
indistinguishable from those rhythms
envisaged in my echoed headspace
undulating between mundane
wakefulness and those uncertain states
delved and divided among that sable
Jungian other; a luminous elsewhere
recalled from unified unconsciousness.
Bootlegs and bookends
for Thanatos and Libido
From opened graves peering up at the heavens.
Synodic firmaments filled with angelic copulations,
star smolder cradled
between her widened simile--
a late smile born of untoward sorrows
neither forgiven nor forgotten
but locked in gilded tomes
bedecked by precious smelted metal
salvaged from those savages whose
gold filed cavity teeth
once lent acoustics
to the gnashing of prayers
and unfulfilled screams.
Generations cannibalizing the former
ones devoured in serpent slick mouths,
Ouroboros receiving oral
when engulfs his portmanteau tail
deep into the reciprocal warmth
of his hissing, receptacle throat.
Saintliness added ad infinitum.
Vacancies between eventualities:
some reflected aesthetically
others rife with permutations
of the ugly and grotesque.
Arguments and apologists at apogee
inmost en masse
hubris and human foibles.
Onan's edentulous response
presented in gobbledegook
Gog and Magog soliloquies
while I sip teacups filled with mescaline
at the borders of uncharted delusions;
the exhausted cartographers
who cannot distinguish doughnuts
from a torus or torsos
or a taurus' engorged horns
reflected in mercurial mirrors.
Gently fondling Rosary
beads in an unsavory
manner--O the things mannequins
whisper as their lit cigarettes
burn in satin blackness.
Premises made in the likeness of entrances.
Revised conclusions from which we egress.
Got a letter four fortnights ago
from long haired darling Syntax
admitting how easily she bruises
and that her inmost desire
is for a new order
or improved porno.
Fortune cookies split open
that read: We're viscerally alive in memory
though dying in our collective forgetting.
The Dark Ages madly barking
and rabidly nipping at culture's
lacily obese waistband.
Taking a guided tourbus
with myopic docents
who highlight fire and ash interests
about ad infinitum sequels
to the badly dubbed
first version of the Apocalypse
as I waywardly travel
toward a last family reunion
certain to get that autograph
from my Burroughs'
notorious uncle Mugwump
sipping bitters and Chartreuse
gripped in a double D lachrymal cup
clean as a freshly used speculum.
PHILLIP MATTHEW ROBERTS
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