Dionysos and Dulcineas

[rowens]

 Dionysos and Dulcineas


Dulcineas and Dionysos,
in that order, 
are all that really matter.

Hold the spinach, give me
olive oil.
But Dionysos and Dulcineas!

What is time, 
the age of girls
proportionate to their beauty.

Whether vintage, foreign
or domestic—
who works at the register?

Bottom shelf and plump
as the Round-Rumped Beasts 
of the Universities:

I am high and low
and middlebrow
as the actresses of the moment.

Dulcineas and Dionysos.

You all would be on your own:
But for Dionysos and Dulcineas,

I'd have no mind for terrorism
or heart of compassion.

Stray leopards, raspy coyotes,
we screech and prowl in bramble.

[busker]

Too much navel gazing, too much of the writer in this from “I am” onwards. That’s also the point after which the poem ceases to make sense

[rowens]

If the navel belongs to a Dulcinea.

The writer is all that matters from here on out. Fuck everybody else. Especially fuck them if they are a Dulcinea, in the biblical sense.

This poem means exactly what is it says word for word. When there is no booze or attractive women, there is no poet, there is no selfless saint, there is no selfish monster, there is nothing.

Also, making sense is fascism and a form of rape. And not rape in the biblical sense. Rape in the "dark sarcasm in the classroom" sense.

[busker]

If the navel belongs to a Dulcinea.

When there is no booze or attractive women, there is no poet, there is no selfless saint, there is no selfish monster, there is nothing.

Pure rubbish. This is the sort of statement that should see the statement-maker put in stocks and have rotten fruit thrown at him, metaphorically speaking.

A poet cannot engage in endless self indulgence, like a politician. There are rules against that sort of thing.

---

You all would be on your own:
But for Dionysos and Dulcineas,

I'd have no mind for terrorism
or heart of compassion.

Stray leopards, raspy coyotes,
we screech and prowl in bramble.

What I particularly dislike is this section.
The poet goes from addressing his particular situation to the reader ('you'), but then returns immediately to 'I'd have no mind..'
It's as if he is compulsive attention seeker.

The poem up to this point is nice, and the ending is interesting. Maybe keeping it addressed to 'you' rather than ceaselessly self referencing would make fewer readers see red.

That's my take. I can be wrong, because I am not a respectable scientist who's never wrong.

[rowens]

Rules are for babies. We're adults here. This is adult entertainment.

Also, self-indulgence is what makes life worth living. I just spent the last year doing none of things that annoy the people around me, and it sucked ass. Everybody likes me now, because I don't exist. My middle way is this: I do all things that people like and all the things that I like, and when they don't mix, the only odd men out are others. As I don't mind what other people do. I have always enjoyed conflict and confusion and nonsense.

One day, I'll have a big fat book of nonsense and a few good poems, like most people.

---

As for compulsion: I was born with that gift. Doctors tried to cure it, but, I'll be healthy and correct when I'm dead, which will probably never happen, as I've changed the definition of death.

We are free to make things up, and believe them. We all do the second part.

---

I also don't understand the critique, but I did the best I could to address it.

From start to finish, the same thing is being said. When not drunk or turned on/ in love (if there's a difference), I'd no reason to be a terrorist or a compassionate person. I'd be flat and careless.

As an American, and we are all the same person here, who lived through Prohibition: I know.

---

Also, I'd rather see red than nothing. I'd rather you see red than purple. Why? Well, that's a secret.

---

Dionysos and Dulcineas! From start to finish. Laughing and Smashing things up. A one-man band or a quartet. Even a trio! Dionysos and Dulcineas.
The whole poem is in those two words. The rest is filler. Which is the point and the message.


_______________________________________________


(And it didn't suck ass in the biblical sense.)