Pushups on Water
Let’s workshop this poem that is by no means meant to be a mockery of the miracle workings of our savior Christ--let alone to suggest that his mother was an ass-to-mouth freak at the age twelve
scent of the day: Gold Man, by Amouage
Gold Man (1983, Guy Robert)—a musky-floral Arabian chypre that takes me to Al Alam Palace in Muscat a few centuries back, particularly to the pillowy quarters where (under the watchful eye of eunuch slaves, pageboy throat sleeves, standing guard at the door) a sultan orchestrates various sexual acts involving not just the Type-4 nappy dugout of an African concubine but even (in what is considered harām, forbidden, under shariah law) the Type-3 curly dugout of his own daughter—
opens with sensual-fleshy florals (grandma-soap lily of the valley, carnal-anal jasmine, rooty-chalky orris, exotic-custard ylang-ylang) whose filthy-clean tension (almost like that of a cleaned corpse lipsticked and powdered for family viewing) is supercharged by a combo of silken-soft woods (sweet-luminous cedarwood, milky-velvety sandalwood) and soiled-panties animalics (pissy-hobo civet, ocean-lightning ambergris) that seem to have just been hit with a scoop of laundry-powder galaxolide musk (too small of a scoop given the crotch’s fossilized crust),
this washer-suds-meets-dirties-hamper duality of an 80s mullet (business in the front, party in the back) rendering indubitable—especially given their shared jasmine-orris-civet combo of indolic talc, in addition to their shared earthy base of damp bark (muggy-musty oakmoss, leaf-rot patchouli)—a Kouros kinship that (even with its more electrified ash and lack of mentholated herbs) would have been sibling tight were its bitter-fungal myrrh to be deleted and were the other resins it has in common with Kouros (perineal-musky labdanum, citrusy-piney olibanum) more smokey and more honeyed as well as less Persian and less biblical in its stern solemnity—
the overall result being an old-world-aldehydic fragrance that, although from across the room giving hints of Muscat air laced with the mineralic musk of pounded stone (perhaps from the quarry pickaxing of slaves sometimes forced, like their palace-slave counterparts, to deep-throat kneel under a khanjar blade) and although from an arm’s length presenting the talcum regality of a sultan’s robe woven with white-gold thread and infused with white-floral ethereality carried through underbrush on a Boswellia breeze, up close and personal (like I like it, nose nuzzled enough to be a sexual tool all its own) it is straight palace-crotch eroticism during a more recent century of the testicle-chopping Trans-Saharan slave trade (a slave trade relatively neglected, compared to the less barbaric Trans-Atlantic counterpart, in what seems a grand effort, mainly self-mortifying, to blame the human-rights-ratifying enlightened European lines for all the world’s ills);
the overall result being a floral-animalic fragrance that, although not dirty enough to scratch my deeper itches (something closer to the undertail of a monk who has not washed since the rains failed), could be called the father of both the sly-and-raunchy Musk Tonkin and the anal-fixated Salome and, as I suggested in my review of Musk Tonkin, does evoke a pretty vivid harem scene in the palace of a sultan who has not only the decisive power of Vladimir Putin (one of the most famous users of Gold Man) but also the taboo sweet tooth of Marquis de Sade:
the sultan, powdered to all hell (and perhaps decked out in Persian headgear and jeweled rings) sits on a settee in his private chambers as he watches, never once having to raise his voice to orchestrate the freakoff, one of his daughters get sucked by a slave concubine before the “good little girl” herself crawls over, all on her own compulsion, to mount him while this time (usually the script is flipped) it is the black wench who tongues his perineum and sucks and slaps his balls, each slap increasing the speed of his cervix-bruising gallop, until his un-allah-ly number of spasms finish unloading the un-allah-ly amount of DDLG cream.
Pushups on Water
Since so many today swear
Bruce Lee could do
a layaway one-inch poke
where you die
a hundred steps later
or midair dash too fast
for film (or, still absurd,
even just tap out
Royce Gracie), what
immaculate conceptions
might we halo him with
after centuries?