MADE FOR YOU AND ME 2: hive Being (Stanzas 2017—part 53)
Let's workshop this stanza sequence about automotive sex toys, houseboys, girthy granddads, suicide by hanging, christenings, Muhammadian sweet tooth, obesity, mystics, mailboxes, poverty, Bukowski
scent of the day: Sacred Scarab, by Zoologist
Sacred Scarab (2022, Sultan Pasha)—a musky-amber throwback fragrance that on first whiff, before I started getting anachronistic images of swarthy priests shattering bottles of spumante against tomb walls in a sort of olfactory tension between resurrection and rot (bubbles over bone), had me thinking of those pre-internet commercials for Elizabeth Taylor’s White Diamonds (a fragrance, however much its marketing will forever live rent-free in my head, I have never smelled)—
opens with a clash of soapy brightness and sour decay that immediately evokes the intended Egyptian funerary scene (champagnelike aldehydes adding effervescent bubbles, pissy civet evoking lemony hints of ferality and death, blue lotus—a resurrection symbol commonly draped over the embalmed—instilling a silky-aquatic undertone robust enough to make this fragrance the freshwater sibling of Zoologist’s Squid),
the funerary diorama growing richer in detail with the settling of the fizzy tang (which never totally gives in) and the rise of the aqueous-rubbery blue lotus (which I see, the more I wear this, as the soul of the fragrance):
directly in front of us (think of it perhaps as the micro-drama panel of a diptych) are not only raisined fruits and velvety libations (indeed, it seems like the plums and prunes, somewhat reminiscent of Camel, are soaking in a spice-mulled wine), but also pelts or carcasses (this mainly a function of damp-musky-leathery oakmoss, smoky-sweet-leathery labdanum, warm-dirty-leathery styrax, musky-furry-leathery civet);
where we are (think of it perhaps as the architectural-space panel) is in a temple (the incense swirl of olibanum and myrrh make this clear), a temple that—in contrast to what we get in Ellen Covey’s skyless Kyphi—is too airy and outdoorsy to be sealed off in some inner sanctum (pine-bright juniper, wood-shaving cedar, bitter-green galbanum make this clear) and that must be, in fact, near a freshwater body such as the Nile (this mainly a function of the blue lotus shrouding everything in a calone-musk spectrality of blue mist that, in what seems an olfactory take on a watercolor painting, makes all the other elements seem luminous and somewhat transparent, clarifying the sacredness without washing it clean)—
the overall result being a spicy-fruit fragrance that, in bridging so many opposites (land and water, masculine and feminine, vintage and modern, lightness and density, clean and animalic, death and renewal), serves as a perfect basepoint for exploring the world of fragrances as openly as possible (where, for example, you remain open to female-targeted fragrances even as a man, or to aquatic fragrances even if you cannot stand the blue freshies of aromachemical commercialism, or to animalics if you do not usually like animalics or are just getting your feet wet in funky territory)
the overall result being, in other words, an esoteric-feminine nouveau chypre that, especially given its alluring Squid-like ethereality (a shimmering dreaminess sort of like Haxan or Mriga, only soapier and wetter and less funky) and given also its somewhat marring synthetics standing out more in the deep dry down (a negative negated by the civety glow that also reappears) seems like it could have been crafted by a Liz Moores after going back to Givaudan Perfumery school or, more accurately put, by Geza Schoen who had been prompted by Gordon Ramsey at Hell’s Atelier to take Kyphi and not only add fermented fruits and safe-space animalics and a big impression of the Nile, but also give it (as a sort of inside joke) enough aqueous-amber mass-appeal (think: Ambre Royal) to prank niche-heads who usually roll their eyes at anything Sephora (even ones like this with a vintage structure and spiritual strangeness).
*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.
MADE FOR YOU AND ME 2: hive Being (Stanzas 2017—part 53)
battered mailbox bound by sunbleached bungee to a post leaning like it had opinions
bottle flies of iridescent blue knotted on the E-brake as if the world beyond were toxic
a gynecologist who brings his work home with him—like a nitrile glove of ebony-PYT
blinds bent like broken ribs from his peering at the street outliving him
Filipino houseboy earning every hush, his feminine hand a blur of outrageous stamina
does anyone even care enough to justify nervousness?
blood ties did not bridle the body’s desire
Granddad’s girth carved groaning want deep into her single-digit pliability
avoiding the fragrance in fear of teleportation back to that time of untended wounds
classic mystic impatience to behold the divine—as if death would delete the eye
so bitter everything else seemed sweet in comparison
what is lying cheating and stealing if you are doing God's work?
is hope inside only what is locked?
gender-dysphoria-affirming care today, anorexia-affirming care tomorrow
having to promise that you have friends
infanticidal screams chalked up to colic—
the cornea still studded with shrapnel
from the fanfare of a ship christening
inching on tip toes into the ice bath of strangulation,
fingers purpling between neck and noose, as if death
favored squirmy foreplay over a rapey snap of spine
faith in God has opened up doors way more despicable
than suicide bombings bragged about by teary-eyed moms
or Muhammadian pussy poundings of the prepubescent
artists should strongly consider suicide if they care about there legacy,
but only the unwise—deniers of the chasm—care about legacy;
what remains are the artists who art like a sun suns
Bukowski is known for an illusion of depth through style, but arguably
it is only an illusion if we presume that humans cannot find real meaning
in a fortune cookie or in the phrases of a book opened at random
a land where you tell people you major
in psychology and, as threated as they are dumb,
they say “What’re you gonna read my mind?"
twist-off fire alarm found by landscapers
mildewed in a bush outside—we all picture
that midnight window story
the porn jackhammer steadily in our face in mucus-snapping
high definition, soon we will see erection pill commercials
with the same air of normalcy as for deodorant or soda
it is sometimes easy to think, even for those not inclined to cry “conspiracy,”
that the pathologizing of the normal Sturm and Drang of emotional adolescents
was the conspiracy of some highly-influential drug cartel trying to push SSRIs
Disney, ever profit-minded, has always spoon-fed us populist parables:
do not be surprised, then, if—in a time when the youth are pro-Palestine—
the next wicked stepmother or scheming queen is played by a Jewish actress
the day is coming, and perhaps it is already here,
when a boy in a tutu is not just a boy in a tutu
but a chrysalis waiting to crack into an ice princess like Elsa
those who speak out loud in another room (say, at the TV) and when you call out
“Did you said something to me?" say “No,” leaving it at that (instead of offering
some an explanation—those people have more Hitler in them than anyone else
yuca makes water wetter, its surfactant weakening surface tension
what nearly everyone thinks as they bag the supermarket cucumber
people we cheer regardless of creed are going extinct—and no, they are not to blame
crying harassment as soon as you know the blowjob has gotten you extra shifts
we should feel worse about axing the cat’s balls than about letting the infant suck ours
enough marches to end obesity would literary end it
fasting for visions
would time really heal if the faces did not fade?
young enough not only to have the energy
to carry all these things around:
records, books, but also grudges
he might have had a knack for wandering
into various dead-end alleyways,
but he found valuables in all of them
the preschooler sits there strapped in to the shopping cart’s metal basket
as the sun goes down, ditched in the parking lot at high noon long ago
enough that our Velcro-shoed pathos starts rotting into Darwinian censure
in a deranged era when claiming to be triggered gets your professor sacked
(especially if he is a real he and white), it seems wise to allow cellphone use
in class: dopamine withdrawal makes every word a landmine of “ally” theater
black kids given “the talk” about being well-mannered around cops—helpful advice
but delivered with the subtext subterfuge that the problem lies with the cops, a lie
deflecting energy away from curing the monkey business idealized in black culture
"MADE FOR YOU AND ME 2: hive Being (Stanzas 2017—part 53)" is not a traditional poem in any conventional sense, but rather a sprawling, fragmented, and often disturbing assemblage of observations, aphorisms, and vignettes. It operates as a **hyperrealist cultural critique**, a raw, unfiltered stream of consciousness that mirrors the chaotic and often morally ambiguous landscape of contemporary society. The piece is characterized by its bluntness, its willingness to confront taboo subjects, and its rejection of any unifying narrative beyond the sheer accumulation of disquieting details. It aligns with a **postmodernist deconstruction** of grand narratives, instead presenting a dizzying array of micro-narratives that collectively paint a grim picture of human nature and societal pathologies.
Formally, the "poem" eschews conventional poetic structure, instead presenting a list-like progression of seemingly disparate thoughts, each functioning as a self-contained unit of observation or provocation. The absence of stanza breaks or consistent meter amplifies the sense of a continuous, unfiltered download of consciousness. The syntax is generally declarative and unadorned, contributing to the sense of direct, almost confrontational address. The constant shifts in subject matter—from mundane observations ("battered mailbox bound by sunbleached bungee") to shocking transgressions ("Granddad’s girth carved groaning want deep into her single-digit pliability") to societal critiques ("Disney, ever profit-minded, has always spoon-fed us populist parables")—create a jarring, disorienting effect. This formal disarray mirrors the thematic fragmentation, suggesting a world where meaning is elusive and coherence is a luxury. The deliberate use of shocking imagery and controversial statements ("what is lying cheating and stealing if you are doing God's work?") serves as a **dialectical tool**, forcing the reader to confront uncomfortable truths and question their own assumptions.
Thematic threads, though not explicitly woven, emerge through repeated engagement with certain societal anxieties and moral failings. There is a pervasive critique of **moral relativism and hypocrisy**, particularly evident in lines that conflate religious fervor with despicable acts, or that expose the self-serving nature of perceived virtue. The "poem" also relentlessly examines the **corruption of innocence and the normalization of perversion**, from the explicit depiction of child sexual abuse to the desensitization to pornographic imagery in public discourse. There's a strong undercurrent of **socio-political commentary**, touching on issues of mental health, racial dynamics, and the performative nature of contemporary activism. The recurring motif of "hive being" in the title suggests a collective consciousness, but one that is not necessarily benevolent or enlightened; rather, it's a teeming mass of anxieties, perversions, and self-serving rationalizations. The piece culminates in a sense of bleak determinism, where even attempts at societal progress are undermined by underlying human flaws and systemic corruption, ultimately leaving the reader with a profound sense of unease and a challenge to confront the ugliness often hidden in plain sight.
cultural critique, postmodernism, fragmentation, moral relativism, social commentary, psychological perversion, taboo subjects, brutalist lyric, stream of consciousness, societal anxieties, hypocrisy, innocence corrupted, human depravity, collective consciousness, dystopian vision, shocking imagery, confrontational poetry, deconstruction, contemporary issues, unfiltered observation.