when it breathes fragrance that is not borne away on the wind
when it clings to an embrace from which it is not severed by fulfilment of desire
Smell of something rotten trhe imagery is nice but what of the substance the cantelowes sounds like the everglades and not like it belongs in londn
In WhatsApp chat, third or even fourth priority tier. One once good feeling’s eternal resting place turned draft’s temporary abode. Half of it lost in cut and paste at behest of response. Before that, copy pasted from notes. Another brevity. That is, only words which urge and words which emerge as dichotomy. That also is, forbidden place where lists or thoughts can’t linger much past emergences or emergencies. Ugly asymmetry.
What sensation has a candle to hold to desperation?
Because this hasn’t one and because I let it sit for a week, it’s waned into little more than nothing. More little than nothing however. Beyond a conversation with a man that talks too much when I invent the {flesh fruit egg} taxonomy of rotten smells, there isn’t much to it. Unfocused first because of no concentrative abilities, now because no point.
First there came my flat building’s garbage can. Little shed in truth. That was fruit and perhaps a dead rat but I think just leftovers. All will be well. If it’s not it’s not all? If it’s not I can always blow my brains out, in all or in bits (duh). The latter in the former.
#Two week adjustment: probably a dead rat.
Second there was—and this was the hardestlongestthickest by far—the stretch of asphalt in front of my flatmate’s favourite caff. +20m either side. I don’t think it was anything to do with the Establishment—not the evil sort, I’d add if I were still seventeen. I would not be writing this if I were seventeen. We’ll definitely go there again. Garbage bins again, now across the sidewalk? That was just fruit but the way fruit smells in the city’s summer heat. Urban fruit less GMOed up than rural fruit because no one there grows their shit anymore much as they like to pretend. What would the metropole be without its overpriced organic green grocers?
Desperation can be sensually engendered through\/by anything that is capable of substantiation thus absentiation. Or vice versa. Or else.
Last when I should in fact say third: exiting Cantelowes Garden. Nothing upon entering. Nothing lost, nothing found and (the gall!) nothing warned: Abandon all hope ye who exit here. Preposterous on the perhaps of: what if I spend the night??? Or the rest of my life. In the thump the the the thump again the perpetual fire of April 30, mark the date down you better and surely no worse than me/or seeing the cruellest--TRUTH--month off/I who have sat by thee below (the bellow of!!!) the wall-purgis or -purged and walked among the canteLOWEST of the dead. Smell long forgotten, but maybe fruit again.
Swampy ahh name. Almost a marsh, surely a quag or a bog (American all y’all!). Would you still love me if I were a swamp creature?
In the Everglades you would
In the Cantelowes or Florida panhandle or therestoftheWho the hell knows
Clementines split and torn on the grass. That’ll do it.
Heart of still MIA. M loses fourth member and leans sideways into K: could it have been a headshot to the very core of the matter**what on earth would be a katter, if you catch my drift. POW now like, so trite and pastiche. What I did find is Enter The Pescatarian:
{flesh fruit egg fish} although I couldn’t come up with the latter at the time. The same as diet by animal produce. But what about all the world’s milks (who’ll bathe in them?)? Well, depends who you ask.
I only remembered this thinking of the sink at work. Pipe leaking like it was two weeks ago. Poorly screwed, to be technical. Properly screwed, to be myself. Now it’s an odd smell of food-soiled laundry but then it was tuna.
My notes’ keeper who doesn’t know she’s my notes’ keeper and I’m definitely not hers also has a laundry left too long in the washing machine smell to her… I want to say clothes. One might be tempted to replace left long (but not too, too) with stalled to near the Result up to one letter’s inch. Doubled too so you couldn’t blame them. Spoken they could open a stall of truth and break/sell big(ly, if they know what they’re doing).
My laundry just smells of laundry and you just smell of you. I couldn’t conjure it in a hundred or thousandmore years, and neither can I feel it on my skin after you’ve been here. Sometimes on my clothes or linens, but I try not to do that. I would anyway recognise it among all.
U-turn to balance that everyone else won’t, including you. Wear and tear into the living flesh of whose heels? Won’t drag or scrape while airborne, do a full flip; the crowd doesn’t know geometry and will cheer on the same stripes. You can die twice but might not fall on your feet.
Try to set my head straight. My washen smells of honeysuckle and sandalwood. Praise to the bearer of the prolific father’s cognomen! for among the rotten there is of course also wood. Never quite makes it to London, innit? I haven’t been out West in a while but I heard they put the little worms in scrubs.
Summer here is good except when it’s unbearable. It always brings something in its mouth but that something sometimes reeks. Think of it like this. Your gentle, gentle hands on my yes, a floral or gingham dress or naked, you tell me I’m good I’m good, and I’ve never been lonelier.
With the per chance of a landline (1:800): I can smell you now.
Thank you for this month’s £4,44. If only they let me increase my luck to £4,444 (GBP four pounds forty-four pence and twopointfifiths of a pence). If only I lived somewhere else or as someone else and if only it were warmer.