CRITIQUE OF MODERNITY

I’m on a perpetual oneiric-allegorical journey,
clearly visible on the faces of those that care about me.
Adopting the artifice. My heart-paint is splatterable.

I give rise to the—Ha!—Un-fath-o-mable: A profusely
topsy-turvy Wonderland—dealing with exaggerated plots,
that is Modernity: obnoxious & kicking up dirt.

I divorce it & live in the past. Everything is better
with sparkles, so I harass future rumors.
The Post-Modern Microphone that I speak through,

with a paralyzed mouth, makes the devil cry
with a vaudeville-like humor; that restrainable beast.
My voice cracks at the podium of Modernity,

where all of the Prince Charmings are dead & gone.
I have made a deal with Rumpelstiltskin. That is
my only emotional response, non-profit & all,

like a drunken Mall Santa, tongue-tied, cartoonish,
making him seem less spooky to children that already live
within the dramatic illusion of their inner-Disneylands.

Why haven’t I yet been abducted by an alien light-ray?
My Jetson-car is the artisan of my memory-screen—
my mind, this mindlessness! this unconscious wrath!