Mingling with the throw-away; yard sale, junkyard, scrap heap.
Stretching personal, nosey lazing in the smells I
love; rust, paint melt, metal crush, hard lime, dust, sometimes
I sniff my elders. (boredom and tangerines)
Work feet, armpits, morning breath; distinct and solid.
Unignorable distraction from the oxygen. The breathing.
Note the power perverse of broken wind, four people
and a small car.
These perfumes: not even proper for the prepared.
There are no variant reactions, these stinks
charismatic.
Note the sensation of being
lost in the bar smoke.
Dry runs my match box, night after night.
Adding your comment: