Sleep Fissures (ROUND 3)
SCENT OF THE DAY: Ambilux, by Marlou
Ambilux (2017, Alexandra Monet)—a faux musk fragrance falling somewhere between clean sheep ruminating on regurgitated hay, on the one hand, and a warthog’s greedy nosedive right into the glandular bacchanalia of infected hobo sex, on the other—
transports me, face-first, right into the batter’s box (pissy-hairy vulva, sweaty-sebum perineum) of a prehistoric European woman in a grassy wildflower field as she gives raw-dog birth upon a primitive hide made haunchier by the splurts and dribbles of her labor fluids,
citrus-floral elements (piney-lemony olibanum, rosy-fizzy pink pepper, creamy-banana ylang-ylang, and powdery-sweet jasmine, but also subtle hints of woody-herbaceous lavender, leafy-lemon geranium, fresh-green lily of the valley, velvety-cucumber violet) setting a wilderness scene where a grassy summer field seems to yawn into the sun-salutation renewal of dawn (perhaps a fire burning in the blurry background between the squatting woman’s thighs)
while spicy-carnal elements (body-sweat cumin, caramel-curry immortelle, sweet-dusty cinnamon, bitter-camphoraceous clove, tobacco-leather castoreum, scalp-grease costus) ease the nose—only ease because all of these are very subtle—smackdab into salty vagina stretched in its hirsute glory to reveal a newborn head cheesed with unguent-musky vernix (ylang-ylang adding a non-ethyl-maltol sweetness and also a lanolin cream that synergizes with the tallow-sebum of the costus)—
the overall result being a human-sweat floral composition that, despite all the erotic hype (bruised-cervix this, pussy-prolapse that), offers only thirty percent boudoir hardcore (Vegas sheets of WAP gush and crystallized urine, discharge-rich panties that could stand on semi-fishy end despite being otherwise skidless) and over sixty percent goat-stable coziness (dirtier than Wolf Brothers’s Goat, where the costus imparts floofy and milky lanolin, but not as dirty as BeauFort’s Rake and Ruin, where the costus imparts unwashed scalp itched to death inside a salt-ringed baseball cap),
a goat-stable coziness that in my mind mixes with the often-noted poonani grease to yield a graphic birth scene involving (as childbirth often does, whatever our Abrahamic shame might tuck away) better-than-any-sex convulsions (orgasms doubling, tripling, quadrupling in the vulvic fanning) that catapult the woman into the oxytocin rapture of oneness with the cosmos;
the overall result being, in other words, a humanoid-animal fragrance that, zooming in on the costus-cumin sebum and even some of the ambergris texture of Opus 7, evokes a birth scene in a grassy field of wildflowers and that, although rather clean as far as births go (none of the pooping OBGYNs see everyday), involves the expected smells (musky-hay amniotic fluid, salty-cortisol sweat, iron-rose blood, gamey-metallic placenta, sweet-waxy vernix caseosa) and that seems to transition subtly from the dawn’s moaning heights of fecund chaos (a body slipping out of another body) to the placid smells of a golden-afternoon hay pile (an effect especially of the coumarin-immortelle combo) where swaddled in something like sheep’s wool sleeps a fresh human who radiates that primal newborn smell of skin talc (a synergy of costus with the lavender-violet combo of benzyl salicylate, linalool, and alpha-isomethyl ionone),
a progression from crotch to cradle that, just like Earth’s various colors collapse at Jupiter’s distance to pale blue, collapses at an arm’s distance into a flat-linear buzz of raunchy-yet-senior-citizen-sweet musk similar to what we get Gold Man and Salome (only here, lacking much of the “perfuminess” that tends to give even the most challenging compositions the alibi of deliberate adornment, coming off a lot more like an unbidden aroma emanating natively from the wearer).
*Worked on the second half today. I solved the Gumby line, switched from “clay” (which was factually wrong) to “polymer,” and clarified that “his Gumby butt plug” refers to Mr. Malik using the toy. I also tightened the co-location metaphor so it’s clear: the Gumby toy and the polymer that makes it up occupy the exact same space, just like the tattooed child pussy and her real adult pussy converge perfectly.
I replaced "perfect" with “plumb.” “Plumb” has a nice double meaning but still keeps the p-alliteration running throughout: preschool, pussies, plumb, plug, polymer, pigging, whimpering, perp—an alliteration that creates an almost nursery-rhyme horror effect.
I changed "ravaging" to "pigging out" because it captures her turnt-out state better. After all, she’s not just reclaiming power. She’s degraded, gluttonous—the tattoo itself proving how far kinked she is.
I refined "avatars" to show these men aren’t random but rather stand-ins for Mr. Malik. She's compulsively re-enacting, in effect. And I got "every avatar's whimpering load" (singular) to focus on each individual moment where she sees the child inside the perp during that vulnerable orgasm.
Sleep Fissures
1
The mom—amoxicillin bottle four, baffled by what could keep doubling a toddler over
with olive discharge as foamy and fevered as her vomit—guts the home of all culprits:
scented soap, bubble bath; junk foods, synthetic panties too tight—all, save Mr. Malik.
2
Spread preschool self tatted to her torso so that both bald pussies converge (an overlap
plumb as his Gumby butt plug and the polymer that makes it up), now the true big girl
can see—cervix pigging out on every avatar’s whimpering load—the child in the perp.
“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)
