for beauty suffers, and suffers by an inversion of satiation: sooner then frankenstein's monster bending his neck before the leaning tower of pisa than a plastic surgeon lining the age of 80 with the body of 40? i think not: given that the former is fiction and prophetic of a.i. and robotics than the latter is further judged from reality that can't be denied.*

or how i extend my hand
into the depth of my window's
barricade of glass,
and gloss in many pimples
my hand being kissed by the rain
as if in iron of irony be a read fingerprint;
vide cor meum carma deum es deus carpe es diem;
the proximity of poetry's timing
always mismatched the other arts
to have their cavern copper bulges
and blank sheaved wool stretched
for a cannibal's assortment of ready contortions;
but that is what i read into you,
not what i actually read:
what i read was more geographical,
foreign and exuberant, more familial
and orientated in belonging if by damnation
belonging as a national socialist obedience...
what i read into you, may mercy judge...
was but a crucifix... and a flimsy greek's lie.