MADE FOR YOU AND ME 1: hive Being (Stanzas 2016—part 57)
Let's workshop this stanza sequence about the "husband stitch," the sun, junkies washing genitals in public, God, the French revolution, waterfalls, violent fellatio, elephants, astrology, prayer, cum
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hooded glances embarrassed to pray gas station slot machine every death—a library ablaze lacking the guts to get a mistress garbage cans scraped along to the curb turned off by porn actresses with foreign accents an unexplained presence imposing uneasy hospitality what hope is there, really, when so many trust in astrology? when that brilliance passes its zenith, flora lowest to the ground are spared again in the cool shadow of neighbors junky vagina squat washed, for the gateway to the next fix, in the pathetic parabola of an urban drinking fountain (panties the same) the disloyal lover—a cliché—approaches his spurned partner in a cliché: cap-in-hand, head hung in contrition's awkward pose wound healing, collagen producing, antioxidant rich, and freezable for later use—cum is a secret face cream going back to more grandmas than you might believe spiritually cashiered by a sense of self-sufficiency too extreme for a mere mode of being overhearing a halfalogue slows reaction time when performing concurrent activities not merely due to its partial predictability: it can be fully predictable and still distract and it can be fully unpredictable and not distract (if it is from, say, a foreign tongue) being cancelled as a superstar often makes you a bigger superstar, which is why perhaps it is now starting to get us off more to go after those our cancellations can destroy: the nobody-disenfranchised high off guillotining nobles, revolution's fury turned on peasants hoarding bread as camaraderie curdled into paranoia being able to fulfill every desire is perhaps the highest freedom, whereas having to is perhaps the highest bondage in secrecy but in good conscience (since tighter is better), the doctor would always administer the “husband stitch”: going a tad into vaginal territory when mending torn perinea ac-water and piss snake down the lot; streams clear-head and foam-head merge soon from the precipice cascades turn to mist in advance of the talus if the best consumers are those who—having their whole lives ahead of them—crave fashion-travel-technology-alcohol fun-fun-fun, expect consumerist societies to view those who admire the sky or chat with family without FOMO—the “old”—as failures imagination’s harvest ever outpacing grain entrusted to language’s rickety silos a cheating peak in solitaire—fast, as if not to notice what you did prayers cast beyond idols that shrink the sublime matchbook corners to pry at lodged food clots temporarily staunching fury’s hemorrhage a patterned ring of salt around the baseball cap driftwood: once a cucumber, now a pickle watch lest you become the victim of prudence: some exposure is good for you hearts enlarge in villages high above sea seeing two analysts, neither aware signs of our shadow selves in the curbside garbage graybeards immune to marketing's mesmerism “the way it really was” is not always the way it ought to be in art and just like that, he finds himself fighting back the urge to tell new parents in the supermarket to cherish every moment: “They grow up so fast” it takes often too much courage to say the path you have been on is wrong, letting down everyone you told for years a forbidden kiss stolen in haste, her hand electrified at the back of his neck the wind of her urgent exhale bellows out a web of cum top lip to bottom strung those innumerable memories swept away for every obituary blurb are swept away merely as actual—the virtual, untouched through tamarind rapport more than force, the leathery colossus—one tusk chipped— lumbered her mahout across the river
This is a portion of an ongoing mosaic poem called Made for You and Me. This portion is from the first installment: hive Being (Stanzas 2016-2020). More specifically, it is from the 2016 portion of that five-part work.