Surgilube (Round 4)
Let’s workshop this poem about how a nurse's jerking off a patient can serve to restore our faith in the future of humanity--yes, even against the swelling tide of bureaucracy.
scent of the day: Melt My Heart, by Strangelove NYC
First wear notes, very hasty
I have a newer formulation (around 2023 or 2024), which people say is different from the old, but I will say that the oud is definitely present here (which I had a worry about especially given that off the atomizer it smelled like clean musk and chocolate, lovely and very appealing but a bit feminine valentines and underwhelming) and is definitely a benchmark for the stale musty style of oud./ The staleness here seems unmatched./ perhaps the stale mustiness appear so in your face in contrast to the lovely chocolate notes / But I sense it is in itself loud, that it is reinforced by a stale musty patchouli / this is what Akro’s Dark wanted to be / staleness does give in to sour in the passing of hours, gettign more milky even it seems / excellent but overpriced/ more masculine than you would think and does pull back from its gourmand look on paper / inm the air there is no offense even in the beginning but up close the fragheads will love the off staleness / although I like the mustiness, I do with I got more animalism or dung that people often reported about this scent.
*worked on beginning. Day was spent mainly working ion the AI piece. I think it is coming around.
Surgilube
Pent-up voltage jacked out of their bedridden loins
by a matronly yet militant grip (clinical, but only where
it counts: in resolve), shearing twists of friction more
often than not spicing the empathetic pulse (two high
one full, two high one full, a few fulls, and back again,
only—balls beaten up by collateral grace—less careful
in the downstroke); blankets thrashing too savagely,
muffling the gooey macaroni of amplified insect scuttle
too pitiably, to be anything more than formality, a titty
with luck kerplunked out right at the merciful moment;
quivering relief wiped down with a damp rag inexplicable
in its near tong-worthy warmth, hummed song soothing
the aftershocks of nether bluster (but rarely slipping,
despite the mess, into baby talk detrimental to dignity)—
CCTV footage now confirms, yes, too many cases
for us to relinquish our faith in humanity just yet:
a steady stream of nurses (pink, blue), some saintly
enough to hush the most insistent eyeball nudges
to bedside wallets (“Ssh. Relax now.”), dispensing
farmer clemency upon the helpless in their charge
(old men unvisited, young men mummified in casts
leaving their every itch an immersion into stoicism),
ensouled people (more to them than billing codes)
left glowing (“Dad never looked so happy in his life!”).
Too humane (moans worked in) to be called “heretical,”
too violent (cruel bites of the lip) to be called “tender”—
such helping hands, their Kafka-pleasing nerve to piston
right under the fluorescence of corporate compliance,
safekeep the fragile hope that true respect and TLC
might survive bureaucracy’s psychopathic crusade
to sterilize all rawness and risk and spontaneity,
all authentic interaction, for the sake of ensuring
a safe space smothered beneath smiley protocol,
a space right out of the dry dream of an HR officer:
where one must say “unalived” instead of “killed”;
where “honey,” “sweetheart,” “darlin” are contraband
especially if uttered by those with “optics of privilege”;
where men must not gather too long at the water cooler,
lest the spectral history of Salem patriarchy be invoked;
where every office door must remain open even if
the student or colleague visiting you is in tears;
where discourse must follow a call-center script
as bloodless as the wall color of anti-anxiety beige;
where offering an extra shelter blanket requires
a four-page “Exceptional Supply Request Form”
signed by no fewer than two administrators;
where a burn-unit caretaker gets put “on notice”
for exceeding the 240 second sponge-bath limit,
the patient’s terror and need for a hand to hold
dismissed as irrelevant to “efficiency metrics”;
where “all employees and staff are forbidden
from bringing in outside food (including candy)”
because “unauthorized communal festivities
are liable to blindside those among our family
struggling with chronic caloric over-indexing”
(the anti-toxic substitute for “food addiction”);
where two caretakers must always be present
to deter protocol breaches, if even just leaning in
to listen a bit closer (which, as a known precursor
to assault, violates the personal-space guideline).