Kombu
Let’s workshop this poem that, in spite of the mortuary setting, breathes new life into the old adage, one my late father liked to say to me: "No one knows where the nose goes when the door's closed!"
scent of the day: Louna, by Miyaz
First day wear.
Louna is heavenly: a musty dusty dirty rose, almost ashy (more like burnt rosewood than rose itself), with cheesy facets made—especially in first hour—bright and metallic by green apple, cheesy facets that become afterwards more like the barn straw of Dahn Oud al Shams and Ruade in drydown./ It is a musty dusty dirty rose whose typical spa-soap facets are subdued by boozy fruit somehow rich in fermentation but low in sugar. / Still lovely when it mellows but I wish it did not mellow so soon.
Kombu Too jerkied in their anemic shrivel to dismiss as simply “chapped,” each fingernail flick a dead thock as if to driftwood kelp—her inmost lips, meaty enough for a beachless life shunning sleepovers even as a tween, revivified like rum raisins under mortuary suckle.