MADE FOR YOU AND ME 2: hive Being (Stanzas 2017—part 17)
Let's workshop this stanza sequence about floods, necrophilia, burning dead bodies, suicide, throat-gagging to induce vaginal kegels, deep-sea diving, the disgusting practices of schoolboys, shrooms
he still had it saved: the chewed bubblegum of his grade-school crush a roll of toilet paper on the wall dispenser distended by the receded flood innocent enough not to know why no less than two should be with the corpse at a time night lasted longer in the morning shadows the taint tingle of extreme heights sword fighting in the dressing room while their mothers strip teen compact mirrors blinding onlookers with concentrated beach rays that father still collecting egg cartoons although there will be no more school projects that father who tries to make his children laugh during church service trees before Christ was born still growing let the children of the deceased light the pyre veneers flash like squid colors when fear's undertow drags us under spinning tween sugar is a cinch when all their idols brag about how their pussies drip newspapers gone brittle yellow in an attic shamed by generosity dying of another’s death, but only for a few people twelve and already wearing makeup to school—oh, and a guy the body hanging in the study was dead to its effects even on the children needs too limited to our powers to increase our powers custodians of custom coveted by the cat, the warm place left behind from the dog each mouse dipped in water and then in powdered multivitamin for the snake achievement reduced merely to escaping where you are one might admire the protesters even while personally revolted by their certainty jerked off while shackled, tendons torn and shortened, at the factory farm to be ravished is to be seized and pumped full of delight—or to be raped fingers stuffed down the throat gags it, yes, kiddie tight child dreams (school nights, Christmas eve) elbowed out by his dad’s drunken yelling— by the banging, his mom weeping in his bed those students who wrap their lips around water-fountain spigots overlap in large part with those who slurp—sometimes even snort up their nose—puddles of orange juice and milk off cafeteria tables she claimed the lust child as her own—in a forever secret— to conceal the shame not only of her middle-school sister but of the tip-toe wizard she continued calling her husband young photos he cannot bear to behold straight on: the same dejection and insecurity that molded everything until now— and that harbors what lies ahead—beams from his bald face decades since he last entered this room, he felt he could gather up ghostly wisps of her scent—enough to arouse its slumbering simulacrum—if only he inhaled in dark quiet she was turned off by what she intuited in a glance below consciousness as his inability to grasp the depth of female perversity fear of spaces both open and closed triggered as the diver plummets into the abyss beyond his exosuit shot down in war, for years family spoke—children knowing no better— as if he were still fighting overseas a good way to sift through who to read is to find the best q-and-a remarks in colloquia war on masturbation dead and gone, and yet we still deal with its effects: normalized circumcision, for example wanting a young girl but settling for the fact that his girlfriend would get raped on the regular as a kid, words of consolation whisper in his heart: at least I get to bang a person raped as a kid you saw it with black belts attained with ease lest clients leave, and yet you thought it would different with the PhD? on your resume, that you refused the accolade never failing to give women what they want, whether they want it or not cleaning out the house, a canned-goods bunker prepped for apocalypse, after he died prostitutes who get up at dawn instead of sleeping past noon lifelong refusal to open the letter handed at the doorstep by soldiers in full regalia cleanup arrests—vagrancy, public drunkenness—before tourist season Dad locked up for life, your mother’s murder freed you from his torture it seemed as if the star’s immortality halted deep in his old age, uncoiling from him the resigned edge to his voice revealed that his threat was a cold-hard fact— not empty: “I’ma slaughter this bitch” sometimes, though, admitting it was stolen—by fighting to take it back, say—has you lose what was never really gone, as some natives of colonialism have learned the hard way a red flag it should raise if those who set up paradise on your land say as gospel not only that your paradise is elsewhere (in the sky), but also that the path there is through humble servitude to them did you really get the full message from the psychedelics if, while on them, you never sincerely and literally felt you were going to die: heart attack, clot, hemorrhage, fentanyl spike?
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 2017 portion of that five-part work.