Beyond Stitchable (ROUND 1)
scent of the day: CP Raspberry, by Ensar Oud
berry upfront—almost converging, sort of like the horseshoe theory of politics, to the cloying extreme of designer dreck. But just as it is about to go too far it pulls back, the whole tightening (like the rewind of a star explosion) into an oudy smokey ash. This is so smokey and ashy that, given the berry note on top of it all, it is almost like the tropical twin of the industrial Terroni—and, if calling them “twins” is too much of a stretch, this is the Arnold Schwarzenegger (raised on the cleanest tropical foods) and Terroni is Danny Devito (raised on the mass-market processed food perfect for the American medical industry). Either way, CP Rasp is as bold as Terroni, a remarkable feat for a natural perfume.
This first day I wore this was to pick up my cat from the hospital. One spray and the veterinary assistant could not finish this blowjob—no, just kidding. One spray, applied two hours prior, was enough for my partner to ask me to wipe it off with Wet Ones on the the way there. The wet ones did not work enouygh for her.
CP raspberry is very pervasive and could be offensive in that way—although I personally find it hard to be repulsed by any Ensar, especially this one. Again, we have the perfect example here if the horseshoe theory in action: “pure naturals” that radiate as if synthetic.
This I feel forms a pair with Purple Kinam in the way that Aroha Kyaku forms a pair with Black Changho. Aside from musk (here it is Tonkin and in Purple Kinam it is Mongolian), these two share a strong tobacco-oudiness (the oud in here is dirtier and ashier as opposed to mushroomy) with an explicit overlap in aquatic-tea blue lotus, pollen-fuzz mimosa, and jammy-seedy raspberry.
*Let's workshop this poem about the tragic delusion of a soldier who believes a solemn promise to deliver his fallen comrades' letters can buy him immunity from the indifferent brutality of war.
Beyond Stitchable
She cannot stop corralling reports of neonatal cock sleeves: what hooks her, hole ruin
just the tip, are the thoracic creampies, how even the tiniest plum heart will squeeze—
unbroken, unlike beheaded cloaca—in that milking gallop humans in ecstasy demand.
“We need books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us.”—Kafka (against the safe-space cancel culture pushed by anti-art bullies, left and right)
