The Tip (Round 8)

Let's workshop this poem where two men debate what constitutes going too far during a session with a junky mother's offering to the god of fentanyl

Scent of the Day: Civet de Nuit, by Areej

First wear. Here are notes.

sensual calming traditional / civet de nuit is likely an edp, Adam suggests as much: he says that the materials are so dense he needed to make it open up like peacock tail / this is really my kind of fragracne. / The image is brutally clear: an extremely antique honey drizzler drizzling the oldest helioptrope honey (name?) over a soggy diaper of someone whose piss is nothing sharp, and not sour much even, but honey round and smooth and warm like when you first pee yourself in the freezing cold. / I realize that through this and Classica, where my love is bent: I definitely love florals (heliotrope especially) and vintage smells / Once again it brings me back to Prin—because Prin is able to capture those and yet give an offensive and exotic twist / whereas is this is a straight homage to vintage perfumery (in fact, I would just recommend getting this instead of hunting down honey-civet vintage bottles), Prin honors the vintage by carrying the torch forward. / feels like Im steppiugn back in time—while not the most moving scent, especially since it boils down to pissy honey (the pissy honey of Boss Number One except more round and without the cleanign product citrus and herbs), it is definitely in the top five of fragrances that take me back in time /its musk is more like mouse than deer / spicey boozy floral honey tobacco /musk more nursing home and mouse than stag /cherry almond (heliotrope) in civet nuit /birch tar brings out the leather of the civet, which here is more hidy than pissy /honeywd hide / almond feeling like Classica but not as doughy:floured dough heliotrope is a love for me, which is why I like Classica More / labdanum too bumps leather / marzipan coffe? /heliotrope is not the star over civet and honey /civet de nuit like classica does not pierce it is smooth but in a powdery way instead of a plastic bubble /big vintage lactones and heliotrope could make it redundant for people who have big vintage collection /mustiness--aged musty contributes and to nursing home skin /civet de nuit is a honey dripped golden graham scent but with this old pissy overlay--there is piss here definitely and it does seem that civet is the star. / the civet is round though, not sharp abd percing. round and smooth as honey. image is of honey drizzled wood device. this definitely could have been called zoologist bee. /i get boss vibes from this . at least one layer is boss. Crazy. the heliotrope in Classica is more captivating. but this is an alluring scent. / florals seem real. / i get daytime vibes from this actually. / first spray made me think of powder like gold man. / but it is a syrupy honey /if burmite honey, which i enjoy more, were made with these killer ingredients it might be in top 5

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*Worked today on the third stanza

The Tip

Two men stand blunted over a thrice-curbside coffee table—
gang glyphs gouged into its sticky body like cellblock graffiti;
a takeout carton, Tasty Hunan, wedged under the short leg.
Jeans and boxers puddled over baby-blue Nikes on carpet
crunchy with cigar guts, busted vapes, and that lime teether
(its vibrancy stomped by the ashy deadfall of indifference)—
animalic notes of street-ball perinea plume over stale Glade.
Their dispute, its casual air (as if merely “Would you rather
fight a horse-sized duck or . . . ?”), contradicts more than just
the candlelit mood of Bobby Brown’s “Roni” on the boombox.

The younger man—the one who supplied that fentanyl key,
that medical-grade lozenge, to the pockmarked mother’s heart,
sedate in its broken pulse against the under-toilet linoleum—
remains like a rock in the siren-choked section eight of trash
turned trashier by the guileless gurgles of innocence, the coos:
“Nah, Big Cuz. My nigga—you talkin bout killin this bitch!”
“Tch. How you figure, nigga? Little bitch suckin like she hungry.
Mmh, got that mah-fuckin instinct—just like mom dukes and shit.”
The younger man, despite shaking his head, strokes himself—
swinging in the on-deck circle. “I’m talkin size. Shit too tight!”

In the manner of a parent wiping the creases of thigh chub
before dusting tomorrow in talcum, each wife-beatered man
cups a “tenderoni” foot—sandpaper thumbs, match strikers,
soft against the pliant arches. The no-penetration rule (clicked
earlier by maternal molars, chomping in hustle to the bathroom)
the tagalong interloper, bandana blue, takes as mere suggestion:
“Trust, Young Cuz.” Rising unnoticed from memory’s cellar,
an irrelevant factoid—planted somehow in juvie health class
(girls are born loaded with all their eggs)—syringes conviction
into his fresh-from-jail stance (one still facing knotted brows).

“On God, Cuz. Shit born ready to stretch. Shit be crazy.”
“Nigga, I let—. Nah, I’m good on that.” “Ain’t even hearin me!
Tch. Lil nigga, how you think they gon have babies?!”
“Nigga, she ain’t ready to have no baby!” “Shit born ready!
Midget bitches got—. Shit’ll stretch, Cuz. Just can’t hit deep.”
After a teabag into the suckling reflex, milk violence engorging
the baby arm, he snatches the other foot with a glare: “Tch”—
swiveling its rashy butt, squeaking, to the missionary edge.
“Just the tip.—See? Steady cooin, cooin for that chocolate! 
Little hoe like mom dukes! Bet she take two pipes, nigga!"

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