scent of the day: Nocturnal Poetry, by Prin
Has a vibe similar to Arsalan. Like a cross between Arsalan and especially the more recent hyrax-cumin-jasmine-civet release Persephone, which is much more fruity and perhaps even skankier (but marred a bit by annoying synthetics).
Nocturnal Poetry is another banger. No weird amberwoods like in some of his fragrances. It has those dusty aldehydes that I love though. Jeez prin is good. less spicy than Arsalan and more green with even hints of the haxan glow and the mriga musk. Arsalan’s brother—both cuminy spiced but this one is more focused on musky animalics than cheesy oud. Nocturnal poetry is more foresty than Arsalan too. it is like the dried wood cabin (full of animal rot) of Blair Witch whose forest and yard is Haxan. Prins fragrances overlap and intertwine like Stephen king stories.
I decided to wear this one because I’m tired of being called by police for “check-ins” due to my writing. It is not as bad as the UK, where artists are beign arrested. But it is a bad time. The regular people are the biggest enemies, and not just because their choice in perfumery. They are the average joes who absolutely do not get it, who say “well he shouldn’t be writing that stuff.” They really say that with no irony. They have no taste, no depth. Fine, that is to be expected in a soulless depthless antiintellectual country such as this. But what really gets under my skin is that some of these fake fucks will hold up as their favorite authors Homer or Hesiod (triggerers par excellence with the obscenities they describe, even having the gods rape).
The philosopher, the poet, the truth-teller, the artist is there to shine a light on all aspects of reality, even the abject. The devil loves these averages Joes because they keep the devil hidden. The artist holds a mirror up to who we are. Btu we do not want to see it. So we censor and silence and shame as well as call the police. The writers of the Halloween film are NOT pure evil like Michael Myers, btw. That is a distinction we are losing. We are losing a lot. It is not just about ensuring the government does not interfere with free speech. That is mere weather, no climate. It is about the deeper issue of our culture of intolerance to anything difference, to any unorthodoxy. It will be our undoing. And it will come quick because such Pharisee-like insistence ion orthodoxy is done in the name of “diversity.” I will never get over how wild it is that people do not grasp the irony. I will just wear my Prin and wait for the next police call. Or maybe next time it will be a knock.
MADE FOR YOU AND ME 3: hive Being (Stanzas 2018—part 16)
the era of not personally knowing anyone who reads books
dying in the nest, unable to leap
hostility to big words is understandable in a world that does not read
suicide note: “Why go on giving them the satisfaction of another month’s rent?”
a child eavesdropping for the sheer strangeness of verbal specificities
“rape the whore if she won’t wear her hijab: show her what she deserves”
the poetic nature of flat diction: Houston control, police reports
they do not want your advice—it could undermine their case against reality
tired of hearing yourself talk about a project you have yet to begin
no, what would be wrong is if you were not depressed in this situation
wanting to do x or just wanting to say you did x?
managing the consequences of misjudgment
antipathy for all confinement around the neck
he would turn his back on the light of heaven if he learned instead the flames of perdition were what kept their egg-drop succulence— his chlorinated wads, her salinated squirt—fevered down his gullet
if it is morally right for you to have chosen beauty over what is morally right, then you have not chosen beauty over what is morally right
striving to achieve in life the agency most achieve only after death when wishes in last wills read as commands
she could not bring herself to finish the book on her dead husband, it being her way to avoid relinquishing him
pop-music and pop-holiday observance to keep intact the same reality that your radicality threatens to shatter; sticking close to your nation’s embassy in the alien land
returning home from having had to rub out even children soldiers, most likely he can barely stand the “Welcome home, hero” banners, let alone the crayon stick figures of him mowing down the bad guys
we used to thank God that we were there to prepare the body for burial with our own hands, and yet now we thank God for the opposite
the law on the proper way to communicate sexual consent demands a “Yes” be given, not a nod, a kiss back, or even a “Hai” or “Si”
sticking around only to show you were not lying about loving her
were the comedy club not so dark, so many would be afraid to laugh
forming memories is a form of writing, and writing is a form of forgetting
institutions of learning deconstruct when led by activists, who would be shitty at their jobs if they thought with nuance and saw the gray
are albino fingers really magical?
vomiting upon the strangled face, hands still clenched
the taboo against masturbation is good for getting us out of the house
not unpacking, due to truant trust in the situation
tattoos turning out to be mere testaments to manic episodes
bonds only with characters in movies watched again and again
pain became too long your story to accept the cure
shame sleep
scared to improvise, knowing that improvising reveals who you truly are
malls replaced churches when churches started putting locks on their doors, and now that all the malls are dying, churches— and yes, some flea-markets—have started filling their bones
he hammer-threw her yorkie into the lion cage when his wife, to his mortification in a space crowded with ice-cream-cone kids watching, would not let up
if Mexicans are such a threat, imagine people from African countries like Zimbabwe who are not only harder workers than us but more educated too
the present thief that is lust for the future often makes hell bearable
having failed at the compromise, you wonder why you ever let fear stop you from going after your dream
inspired by all the social media posts of elk heads high, in pure innocence he posts the trophy of his elephant hunt
behaviors not understood to be consequences of racism cited as justification for the racism
the whole summer vacation in a backyard tent
every experience here, no matter how exotic, is always tinged with a sense of being regular: the first taking of Christ’s body, the first bungee jump
rejecting the ugly even as we cannot fathom how people can reject a whole race
staggered to have learned that the one whom you could have sworn was gay is the biggest skirt-chaser of them all
those who have died young enabled by a culture not wanting to fat-shame
a government that declares war on x gives itself justification to make armed entries in private spaces
almost as warped as being given murder-time for ingesting a mushroom that has us appreciate the color saturation of the dawn, instead of feeling respected and prized as a trustworthy intimate, we feel assaulted when people offer objections to our view
missionary work more to convince yourself than the heathens
taping sexual encounters in fear of the next-day—now, next decade— takeback is, however, itself a crime
guilt most of your life for incidents that were a function of a bacterial infection
so much worry about the garden sections you cannot tend to affects the parts you can
having inquired about her budding collection of wedding magazines, you get that infamous line: “I’m just looking at the pictures!”
taking the best pieces on grounds that others do not care enough, that their palates lack enough refinement, to tell the difference
all the rumors about what happens in prison, make it hard to know what really happens to loved ones
what was once a great windfall (the HS teacher sucking you off) is today an abomination
the order of mores, comfortable as the family’s NFL team, is spoiled by just a modicum of critical thinking
given the things that she has seen and done to help, it is hard to blame Mother Teresa for being such an insufferable despot
the upside of the family tragedy is that everyone stopped focusing on how much of a fuck up you are
they post all these trite memes about diversity and being yourself, but hate—ridicule—the “weird”
“masturbate” on the to-do list
living the rest of your life assuming it had been abuse when it was just petechiae
disposed to suicide are those who find the threat of disaster (war, hurricanes) delicious
if there is any secret to happiness, to riding even the downs of fortune with joy, it involves allowing suicide its voice
rejoicing in your own presence, in that you are
improving oneself while dying
drawing from your misfortune a conclusion about your faith: that it must be bogus at heart
hints of a life lived before her children escape from the dementia mother
taking out her having lived a life before you on the most definitive, most implacable, sign of that life: on her child, beloved in her eyes
features of language (subject-predicate sentences, tensed verbs), tempt us to presume the reality of corresponding features (propertyless objects in which properties inhere, past-present-future)
a depth without lighting would be, among other things, that which is capable of being lit
