A Kind of Sense

[rowens]

A Kind of Sense

It begins with pulse.
A universe then me
syncopated as one
orientation, a heart.

From this crown
of separation
sycophantic aliens
bumrush the stage
in full endeavor

suits, tallying what
identity leaks from
the narrow, fair rim. 

This must be how god-
esses feel, quotes the
Journalist-turned critic:
Sample poem, canon,
video-essay, find the hook-
beat and riff it. 
Even from the grave, 

ancestors roost.
Could be the same 
dallying in the garden,
or soma-constipated seer
squatting by the cracks
and stains, light inkling
between loins and brain.

Horned serpent wings,
the whole nine heavens
imprinted on that grooving
column. Plump! in the woods.  . . .

That's enough for now.
Putting the pad down;
he woke up tired . . . 
went to bed tired, 
had a dream tired.

It's not happiness
I want, nor even fame.
The beat is rubbing
us out, gonzo-style.

[matsunosuperfan]

Reads pretty senseless and masturbatory

[rowens]

I've no control.

I was just reading my own book, and came on here to search for someone to mention masturbation so I could post these:


Nero

Everyone wants to live
in authoritarian regimes
so they can be the victim and the hero
like Jesus, Neo and Martin Luther King.

On the map of every model
of the psyche is an Emblem:
a cross-and-bones and a treasure
chest. The gold is the goal
as soon as death.

Even there there is a dragon.
Even there there is a quest.

So be it. But an adventure
need not be an Ad Venture
nor a subject nor a goal.

But without such things
a man is still a slave
working his own plantation.

Married to masturbation.



Self-Reference in a Time of Covid-19

Love as narrative is a gay science,
Dionysos packaged as Icebreaker.
I'm a retard not wearing a windbreaker:

my mouth tastes of what I've been
drinking.

Raphael is not the Angel of attraction
but medicine and explication.

Hanael, the leader past
the Sirens,
is quiet as fire.

We know what we want,
but smile too awkwardly.

The woman isn't afraid
until we say something

about the story.

---

And:


Nature Nurture

Enzymes in wordless chowder
map the ape as, possessed
by angels and djinn of social-culture,
I'm a particular pareidolia.

One grain among the same rose
and fox that clogs the imagination
pipeline; when friends and lovers,
families constellated as somehow
more right than cell genes,

organize a new beginning:
The adolescent wonky ride.
Conservative angst makes a foster
project of shrewdness,
wherein grows real

the Unconscious mind,
some casino on nativeland.
Funny games and retroactive,
latent myths imply a ghost scenario.

And, once again, I'm a novel
psychopompia. An individuated migraine,
emissary to the Chief of not a young
land.

Living apologies
or regrets chalked up to the given,
sweeter tooth than  
pulse and breath.