We All Lay on the Island Beach Together (Tension)

Wikipedia Poem, No. 649

w649

“151. Pseudo-cyclical time is a time transformed by industry. The time founded on commodity production is itself a consumable commodity, recombining everything which, during the period of the old unitary society’s disintegration, had become distinct: private life, economic life, political life. The entirety of the consumable time of modern society ends up being treated as raw material for the production of a diversity of new products to be put on the market as socially controlled uses of time. ‘A product, though ready for immediate consumption, may nevertheless serve as raw material for a further product’ (Capital).” Guy Debord

 

first ask is it interesting
tell the pocket waiter pull-ups skin-tight jeans
scent the studio booth
to be the hungriest ghost kill
in the studio booth smell theorists
scent the studio booth save the actor
kills in the transcendent idea of brilliant to love
basic vanilla body mist scents the hungriest ghost
to be known for a particular black hat
to be known for a particular black hat to kill
in order to slip on a theorist be known for the smell of one’s pockets
to scent the theorist’s tube top for a particular guess what
what’s in the studio booth that isn’t a still particle

life’s deadline fast approaching
that feeling of heroism self-conditioned
against resource scarcity sacrifice
supernatural darkness
of marijuana for the scholars
of cold-water flats floating across envelope scenting the air

Lenny Bruce Tattoo I, v6 [082520122014]

time fogs
a feather in her handwriting falls faintly
beneath the steam on the surface of the mirror

covalent glyphs dribble down my chin
the first time i hear her, the look in her eyes
sun swirling across pepperbright skin

“what do you mean he kissed a leper?
“what’s the point in that? you kiss them
“and they fall apart.”

sense memory no. 1 [revision, 082320121822]

suddenly the sweetness of some fruit
i can’t recall
memory’s maw models some flowery drupe,
not a mango
spread across a lisp thin wheat
its saccharine spear implacable
i heave on repeat, breathe
in hopes of dislodging the pneumonic
of seeds, split spit and juice — an unmistaken
but missing flame

[for Matthew Rohrer, 062120121546]