My Brain Is Mad for Baudrillard



Today, I read of scientists’ warnings

about the potential dangers of sex

robots and thought of you. Some blame

the rise of right-wing populism

on postmodern windbags like you, holed

up in your university office, giving head

to your shadow. But Jean, you were right—

we are living in the desert of the real,

where signs metastasize like cancer cells,

and who hasn’t felt the Foucauldian

grip around her wrists, her ankles?

Even desire a simulacrum of itself.

I drowned in you as if in a frozen lake,

but either I or the lake was dreaming.

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