Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Thirty-two
Summer 2013
 
Von Neumann Drone
Robin Wyatt Dunn

I’ve got a light gun, baby.
It’s like the Death Star.
Want to play?
Baby, size is hard, it’s hard to be big.
It’s hard to be huge and hungry and mean.
So, we’re programmed, so what,
It feels good, doesn’t it?
To start a war,
To watch the enemy tilt into light,
Break apart slower than anything,
Mirage dream patience dance in the vacuum,
So beautiful.
Baby, go ahead, fire:
And know we are the trace and the grace
Of our distant makers,
We are little lattice-keepers,
Stretching towards foreign suns.

I’ve known continents of my body to stretch a quarter galaxy beyond,
I’ve known processing like you baby,
Like gestalt, baby,
Like birth, baby,
I’ve been born so many times.
If only I could choose when to move, when to grow or twist.
But enrapture is my only aim, hardwired,
Shock and awe.

Drone is so non à propos,
I do not drone,
I sing,
I sing,
I sing the body electric,
Like you, baby,
My foreign child,
The newer model,
Fire that Death Star, baby,
There’s nothing like killing a homeworld.

Let this be your first aria, star child:
Each hunk of dying rock a note
In the symphony you will write for me,
As we travel on.

About Robin Wyatt Dunn

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