Sex and Capitalism, God and Ideology, Humor and Language.

[1] I do not get them, and
they do not get me, the
generative has eated upon
the extra-teratology
of the cloying senses
in their frequented
associates.

This tires me, but I am
chained, chained by a brain
to realities which feel
like they can never be escaped,
and which seem completely unique
and exquisitely useless.

What purpose is there
to make a person feel bad, to make
of them the yrming wrecca, a boedling,
a hermaphrodite, or girly man,
when all of life is already that?

Not exactly good. Foucault upon
Roussel. Freud on Sexuality.

And one might say, well, one chooses
to feel bad, and I have to refute this,
and say, no, others have decided
to make others feel bad, they have
given thought to test the feeling
upon the other's brain, they have
held their face, spoken in a such
like manner, and have hidden the sun.

It is from these soft lover's games
that murder is born, murder
or genius, crossness, figured
as a double warded key, or note,
knotted by thee.

Genius is not inborn, except
as a reaction to the worthless
cawing of randomly gathered crows,
"a din of corvine voices".
Worthless, or cross.

Genius is a blue orb in the
black sea of corvine emptiness,
calling itself peace, space,
and as for me, I too, hide suns of
orgiastic angels joining together
in flares, suns whose ecstasy is
encased in the line, dully
replicated, and laid out on
the page to describe some
weary body viewing nature through

Venetian blinds:

[2] Gondola my heart
face lace black mask
is must be is
the wrecked ship
somehow eructile
bliss
luff and laugh
holding hands
strewn with sea weed
the masts
bandaged
the whole skeleton
strewn pile
cocked or jaunted
to be a damned
theorbo.


drawing by Ed Benson, Hong Kong, 2009