MADE FOR YOU AND ME 2: hive Being (Stanzas 2017—part 44)
Let's workshop this stanza sequence about irresistibly tight ("toight!")--fatally tight--marriage nights, Keenan Ivory Wayans, bald spots, pressing hard while brushing teeth, combovers, George Michael
scent of the day: Fumidus, by Profumum Roma. Perhaps the gothic vetiver scent to end all gothic vetiver scents (a no-holds-barred niche version of Encre Noire A L'Extreme, combining the primal with the industrial), Fumidus (Latin for “full of smoke”) opens with a hair-on-your chest bite of a Laphroaig scotch and then—as the scotch quickly dials back in abrasiveness (although always lending peaty hints of cellar mothballs and oak-cask mildew)—settles into its solitary minimalism: bog-monster vetiver (dirty roots, bitter and medicinal) and scorched birch (tarry and leathery, almost reminiscent of creosote or even burnt tire)—the resultant impression, quite evocative, is that of a weathered man sitting in a cold cigar room lined with musty books, next to his leather chair a full ashtray and in front of him (close enough to receive the warmth it once gave) a spent oak fire (perhaps with some charred hazelnut shells still discernable in the ash), a faint cinder glow that gives out umami whisps (nutty like aged cheese, vegetal like seaweed, mesquite like barbecue ribs) until all that remains hours in is a subtle tone (tealike by dawn) of mold-and-ink vetiver.
another preteen uterus ruptured on Muhammad’s sickle-moon wedding night if one feeling were final, inescapable, then suicide might be the answer denying our connection to freakishness by calling people “freaks” an exhaustive dichotomy but only in one domain rosebud is young pussy, life’s answer to which we have been long groomed so many years in the cult to which you sacrificed all, where even could you go? dreams of crack rock set in a charred-bottom bubbler, only no drawer has a lighter challenge avoidance registered and passed along in the very epigenome? the crowd, taunted to roar louder by the echo back of its own roar— Keenan Ivory Wayans: “Message!” bristles splayed worse than rope-tie rape porn from the insane brushing pressures of someone, especially if a woman, clearly bent on self harm once you stop combing strands over the bald spot (let alone gelling them down against rogue wind) what is missing almost disappears: muzzled insecurities shriek; accepted ones play in the background attachment to the guitar songs of the cult, however repulsive they now seem in your normal mind however many decades of disciplined cognitive restructuring pass after deconversion from the Tupperware-party-turned-rape-cult, George Michael’s “I Want Your Sex”— even an elevator’s tinkly orchestral cover—summons panty-sopping Pavlovian slime hands gloved in octopus, brown men spar until the creatures drop in stupor and are hung from clotheslines to dry the artist's way, especially in our consumerist climate, has been to alienate people (a defense mechanism to guard the fire fame reliably extinguishes)—but sometimes even the best alienations (think: Infinite Jest) backfire by some strange happenstance as if you were prey in his eyes, he paces behind the chain-link fence like a dog wearing a path at the edge of the lawn—the pacing coming to a halt, though, each time the “hold me back!”, the “You’re damn lucky!”, gate is opened ashram westerners so easy to exploit streetlamps knocked out with stones waking before any alarm—that can feed the belief that you enjoy the job such things happen in an all-boys school stealth-bomber gummies during the Gulf War a necktie around your neck brace becoming the object of a dare the headsman’s daily practice with the axe, aware that he can be called upon anytime to deliver a blow humane enough to save him from shame asking a banal question about a rich matter need not amount to reducing that rich matter to the banal the breeze, although it carries particles of burned persons, sweeps back the beloved’s hair the stallion unloads his cream generative in the man who will die from the depth of the final thrust
This collection of fragments explores themes of alienation, cultural critique, trauma, and the absurdities of human experience, weaving them together in a mosaic of dark humor, stark honesty, and existential depth. Each vignette functions as a microcosm of broader human struggles, forcing readers to confront discomforting truths, societal hypocrisies, and the lingering shadows of history and culture.
The opening image, "another preteen uterus ruptured on Muhammad’s sickle-moon wedding night," thrusts us into the fraught intersection of religion, gender, and violence. This stark phrasing critiques practices rooted in cultural or religious traditions that perpetuate harm under the guise of sanctity. It immediately demands readers grapple with historical and ongoing abuses framed within a cultural or ideological narrative.
"If one feeling were final, inescapable, then suicide might be the answer" succinctly articulates a dark yet profound philosophical insight into the human condition. It captures the despair that arises when emotions, transient by nature, feel immutable—a nod to the existentialist concern with finding meaning in a world of suffering and flux.
Themes of societal norms and personal insecurity permeate lines like "denying our connection to freakishness by calling people ‘freaks’" and "once you stop combing strands over the bald spot... what is missing almost disappears." These reflections lay bare the mechanisms of projection, self-deception, and the fragile social veneers we construct to distance ourselves from discomforting truths about our shared humanity.
Cultural critique resurfaces in fragments such as "the crowd, taunted to roar louder by the echo back of its own roar," highlighting the mob mentality and performative outrage of modern discourse. Keenan Ivory Wayans’ iconic "Message!" serves as a satirical punctuation, underlining the layers of meta-commentary embedded in media and societal interactions.
The motifs of trauma and cult-like devotion emerge vividly in "however many decades of disciplined cognitive restructuring pass after deconversion... summons panty-sopping Pavlovian slime." Here, the visceral imagery and sardonic tone reveal the lasting psychological scars of manipulation and the complex interplay of memory, sensory triggers, and emotional conditioning.
"The headsman’s daily practice with the axe" juxtaposes the banality of routine with the gravity of its purpose, evoking questions of desensitization and moral culpability in professions tied to life-and-death decisions. Similarly, "the breeze, although it carries particles of burned persons, sweeps back the beloved’s hair" juxtaposes beauty with horror, a chilling reminder of humanity's capacity to find solace even amidst atrocity.
The closing line, "the stallion unloads his cream generative in the man who will die from the depth of the final thrust," delivers a starkly visceral and ambiguous image. It speaks to the primal, often destructive impulses that define human and animal existence, leaving readers in a space of simultaneous awe and revulsion.
Through its collage of potent imagery and unflinching truths, this piece challenges us to navigate the intersections of beauty, horror, and absurdity in both personal and collective experience. The fragments compel us to question societal norms, confront historical atrocities, and reflect on the existential paradoxes that shape human life.
A mosaic of dark humor and existential inquiry, this piece traverses themes of alienation, cultural critique, and trauma, forcing readers to confront discomforting truths and societal hypocrisies.
alienation, cultural critique, existentialism, trauma, mob mentality, societal norms, visceral imagery, historical atrocities, dark humor, psychological scars, memory triggers, primal impulses.