MADE FOR YOU AND ME 2: hive Being (Stanzas 2017—part 51)
Let's workshop this stanza sequence about screams, roadkill, birds, power tools, insanity, elegance, hunger, renters, pests, painting, hardship, death, Chinese food, Frances Bacon
scent of the day: Tabac Doré, by Bortnikoff.—Perhaps the best and most realistic tobacco-humidor fragrance (scent-wise) in my collection (although, if only for its modesty in performance and rapid transition to its stale-tobacco phase, besting neither Amouage’s Royal Tobacco nor TSVGA’s Pipe releases), Tabac Doré resists veering too far into the sweet gourmand clichés often associated with tobacco fragrances and instead (and at risk of being dinged for lack of flair) simply presents an apricot-fig cigar whose cognac moistness (momentarily as chocolatey as Profumum Roma’s Patchouly, only here offset by the sparkle of pink pepper) that soon achieves a Chergui-reminiscent hay-like aridity warmed by understated cinnamon—the result being an austere and meditative fragrance that, despite the use of agarwood and ambrette (here boosting the medicinal musty depth of the tobacco and evoking old-library scholarly settings) and despite the use of pyrazine (a common tobacco flavor booster that here give a subtle popcorn edge), highlights tobacco absolute in all its unadulterated semi-sweetness (while at the same time, for whatever it night be worth to say, increases my appreciation of Amouage’s Royal Tobacco, where the tobacco absolute is adulterated and yet with an artistic flamboyance that enriches the fantasy of the full lifespan of a cigar).
fascinated more by the squeals than by the despair behind them to be good at her art she was not bold enough to be bad at her art on weed we open to see ourselves as the Bacon figures that we are: ever fidgeting in various directions reading a book standing before a dresser on which looms the black screen of the TV to depict the effects of x on flesh—a scream face, say—is to depict x itself competing with others for roadkill overtaken by hunger so soon after the China Buffet eloquence covering ignorance no words for the child’s response of “But you said it would be okay” sadness in the passing of even the saddest phase we were not crazy for having multiple voices inside until the dawn of monotheism with news anchors no longer spirited enough to fake emotion, one cannot help but picture a near future where even actors in ads—for, say, laxatives or cars—will be unabashedly dead as well power saws killing bird song waiting to get to the missionary destination to start doing good deeds the charity of a joint, or a bottle, passed among the homeless longing for the minimal consciousness with which goldfish defecate scented crevices and passageways whose call to future generations no extermination spray can eradicate intimate inspection of our micro wilderness before freeing the jaws of the mousetrap by which it dangled, peeping, from its tail vague swathes of time, such as those where it is unclear whether one can joke about the tragedy or about one’s period being late
