MADE FOR YOU AND ME 2: hive Being (Stanzas 2017--part 93)
scent of the day: Narcotico, by Meo Fusciuni
Narcotico strong kouros vibes, mentholic herbality and indolic sourness and musky leatheriness, although less interesting but more competently made and darker in my book than Kouros—at least in vibe and discounting performance. Think of it like an Odor 93 tuberose twist on Kouros. Yes, the tuberose here is strong—very white floral indole evne though no tuberose or any white florals are listed. But of course the perfume is called Narcotico, as in narcotic, and tuberose and other white florals like jasmine are the narcotic florals. And yes, because of the rubbery nature and because of my experience with Odor 93 I am sure the dominant floral is tuberose—its rubber perhaps reinforced by the oud. Indeed, because of the dusty nature—like the inside of a dusty chapel known only to locals—I get here it would seem like this is the same tuberose in Odor 93 (same mothball camphor glow) and really it overtakes the composition here where I suspect it is not supposed to. Or maybe, since this is called “narcotic” by name, I have it reversed: maybe Odor 93’s tuberose is overdosed and I am only putting it the other way aroudn because I ma thinkoign of Odor 93 as Meo Fusciuni’s tuberose dominant frag.
I suggest this as Kouros replacement, especially if you cannot get older bottle where the yellow ambery Animalis perfumers base contained real civet and at high doses. I suspect the reformulated Animalis perfumers base is here in Narcotico. White florals, herbs, frankincense, white musk, patchouli, tonka bean, vanilla—these two have so much in common. Narcotico dials down the cleaning product aspect of Kouros and instead boosts the tuberose and spice. They are notably different. Narcotico, in its deprioritization of Kouros soapiness, allows the sacred mystical parts of their shared connection to shine through. Both use synthetiic musks but the ones here add to more of an impression of powder or dust blown into the air from off the hand. In Kouros, on the other hand, we get a galaxolode that goes much more like laundry suds. Both give you mustiness. But Kouros is more jockstrap muskiness whereas Narcotico’s mustiness, less sour, tilts more in a moldy-cellar direction. Both give you leather. But Kouros’s leather is more smooth and mossy and pronounced whereas Narcotico’s is more rugged and spiced and grainy.
Narcotico is very much like Kouros—think Kouros only with the urinal cake is toned down and a sort of Bel Ami cola spice ramped up. Yes, the frankinscence here is a crucial difference and anchors the difference between 1980s jumpsuit aerobics lockerroom (Kouros) and something much more sacre and church-like (Narcotico). This is less aggressive than Kouros, and—although there is a clash of bitter and sweet here, something perfumer intended—it definitely has less of that Kouros signature tonal whiplash (an olfactory expression with what can readily be found, as almost an Istvanian signature, in my literary writing and even in my perfume reviews). Yes, this is like Kouros turned into a church incense—perhaps even, keeping the connection tight, the church bathroom (less the urinal than a wooden cabinet in there that keeps hand towels, which would actually vibe well with Giuseppe Imprezzabile’s intention: this is supposed to be the smell of his grandmother’s clothing cabinet back when he was 9.
Narcotico is one of my favorites of Meo Fusciuni, in raw smell perhaps above two other more original fragrances: Little Song, whose composition is objectively better and whose vibe is arguably more atmospheric, and likely over Last Season, which—even though it overloads the fragrance with indolis aromachemical and unami seaweed vibes that I find irresistible—is a bit too synthetic and pushy. As far as Odor 93 and Buio and Varanasi are concerned, Narcotico would fall short. This goes especially for Varanasi—a take on leather (if we could reduce it to just that) that is smoky and ashy and yet aquatic and animalic. Varanasi is inimitable in a much truer sense than how people use the term to describe Kouros or the crib-filled Koran—a book that for all the talk Ensar makes of it being the anchor for a religion with no tolerance for thieves and plagiarizers is next to nothing but plagiarism itself (which of course makes sense given the anxiety the book itself repeatedly expresses, the pains it takes to say, it is absolutely original: pure childish overcompensation that we all can see through now in our era where, although we are much more childish in some ways, have much more of a grasp of psychology).
MADE FOR YOU AND ME 2: hive Being (Stanzas 2017—part 93)
buzzers, edible panties, to buy their way out of a bed body-bagged by cowgirl blubber
prescription opioids from family and friends—dinner-party medicine cabinet
a blind man sniffing his wad of toilet paper as if brown were his favorite color
in a day where being used has become taboo, worse is when no one wants to use you
citing prison letters, crazed from solitary confinement, as grounds for parole denial
in the plutonic depths of a mine sucking at air too thin for flame
roofied into the deboned pliability you had not felt since the changing table
words are part of reality, but why be autistic when you hear things like “He was more concerned with words than with reality”
a toxic culture where desiring innermost intimacy is being desperate, and where being desperate is worse than being either a slut or a prude
our demand for a spouse who can provide home and security (build the fence) and yet novelty and adventure (smash the fence), all while being our bestie— if only we sat more around fire we could return to sharing partners like bonobos
midgets worried around dogs
the bum toll at every off ramp
politicization of high-resolution visualizations of the early fetus
a spinster’s prop of delusion, the bridal veil graces the fat neck in the mirror
your lover kisses the childhood burns— the yardage of melted candle, pink and peach— that have yet to let stop driving you insane
delivery men, cashiers, and so on fighting mental atrophy through on-the-job decisions that make them feel important: giving extra napkins, small-talking, offering to double bag
advocating minimalism in shoe sole on grounds that one remote tribe runs barefoot, but ignoring the show-off rite-of-passage aspect of their practice
enervating depression naps versus invigorating buoyant naps
even if self-hatred is learned, does that mean it is uncalled for?
desperate to find some sort of neglect behind the sudden death of the infant so as not to face that yours can be snatched up too
that inner Zeus inhabiting you appears only in theater, before an audience in the semi-dark
unable to stand that beaming nonstop in the guru’s eyes, you tell yourself it is just an act
lingerie, color-shrieking pieces polar opposite to thong skimp, devoured by the gut
what has come with the advent of the shame movement?
but the movement of shaming people for not being “in the present moment” targets not only anxiety about the future but even free-floating daydreams
painted cakes may very well satisfy real hunger— not just aesthetic hunger, but hunger hunger too: the hungry lose themselves, fantasizing in salivation
posters stapled over each other on telephone poles—tooth and claw red here too
talking over the silence with an other, intimacy becoming too intense
semen threatened to lurch from the unzippering dam, loaded as he was
what you would be like—other than like a young child—if you did not hate yourself?
the welcomed (muscle) imbalance of the specialist (athlete)
incentives to exaggerate statistics to sustain the victim culture
thoughts about people deaf to your existence cropping up during momentous experiences that otherwise have nothing to do with them
carpet into which snow has never to melt nor mud to spread
the torture of exposing only testicles in the summer sun
pockets deep enough to keep lawns watered even in our world state
insecure about your home cooking
how much of you it shows that you read birdsong not as emanations of “I’m the one to be loved” but rather as wails of “Who, oh who, will love me?”
it takes a limited vision to see American architecture, or even American cheese, as lacking deep history—limited enough, especially if coming from its own people, to be a diagnostic of autoimmune rage against the boredom of well-to-do-ness
the wish is as big as could be, and yet her breath merely tickles the dandelion
a bird flying in reverse
creeks choked by a sudden surge of melting ice
vigilant about clearing roof snow—or is it Dad’s distraction from the obesity inside?
facing that history could go on without her (only one person, after all) opened her to surrender herself to that one door—opened her, that is, to shut doors that, kept open, kept her world large only on the surface
that point where more love has faded than will appear
he could astound you with wisdom if ever you could lure him into conversation
bullying campaigns against bullying keeps bullying alive, which is the point
what might happen, what “humanoid crush error,” to the toddler intolerant of the robot’s heartless snatching of the toy with which he was playing?
an arm around the shoulder, standing in a hollowed room that has not echoed footsteps like this since move-in day
telling yourself that it is hope for tomorrow, rather than cowardice, that stops you from killing yourself
completely naked little boys covering their breasts with crossed arms, hands clutching their shoulders
beautiful landscapes failing to uplift us even beyond the screen
machinists with fingers too thick—thick as thumbs—to work a fast food register
out of breath hordes wobbling their way to the tourist attraction
caricatured portraits in which capturing likeness has been taken seriously
a painting of a map used as a map
erecting a wall around who you love in the least has who you love contemplating how to escape
it makes sense to try to keep your privilege, but imagine blocking out other groups even when they pose no threat to you—and no, this is not the black-white cliché creampied into skulls by colleges and Disney: the asymmetry leans the other way
and yet being hysterical around the dying may distract the dying
knowing that you have to be the one to leave this town even as you know you will never feel so tied to a place
the question, “Why worry about the health of one already condemned?,” can be reworded, of course, as: “Why worry about anyone’s?”
the worst that could happen is that you die sooner—a rule with exceptions
it being sanctioned takes enough edge off to render vagina fetishism—common among straight men—not quite fetishism
unearthing purpose-giving liberation to be bitter in righteousness from the false belief that your rapist was morally responsible
difficulty letting go of the preoccupying rituals, the perfect control of everything in your space, once you are forced out of solitary confinement
understandably construed (like gardens) as the pineal gland between man and nature, what are we to make of dancing being so associated in contemporary minds with boozing?
the conscious decision to change how to say the family name
milk crate night stand
might vagina fetishism run subterranean enough to have him convinced of being straight?
as soon as he enters the shower your boyfriend’s phone rings, there on the bed, even though it is off
living one furnished room to another
those assertions false in the sense that they lack truth-value
“If Imma be miserable no matter what, a nigga might as well drink—sheit!”
nervous about getting too used to being alone
the rage of a drunk father was an occasion for the boy to learn the woods
if people are forbidden to voice their prejudices, then how can we work them out?
just as gringos fall into a groping Spanish— “No lefto turno”—when speaking to Mexicans, humans used to fall into deadpan talk when talking to 80s robots
every scenario can be seen as miraculous: how can one explain your bed sheets being wrinkled exactly as they are this morning?
since those who fall for one conspiracy theory tend to fall for so many others, best would be to endorse your pet conspiracy and reject the rest
that side of town where people cough all night or are kept up by those who cough all night— everyone rooting for maximal mucosal yield
