After a few years,

his love is dull, his smell not --


pleasant anymore.

She doesn't want to smell

like she does smell now, unwashed --


It's turning men on.

open wide
as filth falls with slugged flow
putrid lies fog our eyes
the stench clinging to nostrils
infiltrating minds
altering our reality

Heart is craving for your love,
Your smell is one of a kind,
Around my head tightened rope,
Silhouette of you brightens the night.

Steer the ship through the storm,
Let your heart into a free dive,
My summer breeze, keep me warm,
İnstead of living a soulless life.

The last thing I think of at night,
Embraced together facing sunrise,
Inside me an instant fight,
Your smile hide those teary eyes.  

You are my sunshine, you are my spring,
The storm is over, the day is bright,
We have a lot more to bring,
The horizon is either black or white.

She stands in the distance,
The smell of a memory on her hands
Old blankets and old incense,
Old meals and tangerine melancholy and wick-fire soot,
The smell of sharp turpentine and paint
Reaching for me, like tentacles floating in the air.

She stands in the distance,
Sunbeams dripping from her fingers
She stands, with a question on her face
And I watch her, and I can only imagine
Time standing still, frozen; my soul immortalized in a single stroke of tantalizing yellow
I am made of paint and light.

i don't have to be
perfect i smell am ugly
she's waiting for me

i think i know
that somewhat ulterior suggestion that you crept into my mind
like a vivid rainbow across your face
light transmissions offering up your words
your image is on repeat
and our sentiments are all quite something else
always on hindsight
on turmoil
easily not speaking
confused about what we want
overexposed to death
we each smell detached
the way we sound in the distance
often too frail to reach inside our beautiful loneliness

You smell like a carnival
in some forlorn town or county
I open the door
and smell the fried dough,
the petting zoo, the bumpkin hoods
with too much cologne
looking at you like you was eyeing their girl
wearing his lanky white arm

You smell like cotton candy,
maybe they could only afford a reptile guy,
the lions club and their burgers and hots
you can only purchase with coupons
The backseat of the worst corvette
owned by the greasiest ugly old man
who has a couple more benjamins than his
old lady's last daddy

I’m triple smoked.
Inundated in a cloud.
Guda, salmon, and a cigarette.
Lay me down. Come be with me.
Something simple. I need warm skin, nothing put in.
It’s slow now. Even with death in my lips, lungs, and mouth. Violation at my fingertips, comfort at your hips.
This cuddle in mist, as sand slips from ancestral vas. Can’t be more tonic. Not even a clean breath from my stacked haze does compare.
Your presence is softer than a compliment, warmer than a gaze fair.
Your hair on my chest or my head on your breast seal a lair.
We swap the feeding hand.
Weakness is a virtue. A face unmasked in rare.
Among a stage smooth, soft skin, slick like ice, warm like loath.
Sticky with sweat, and with a low foggy stench that creeps in your nose. A familiar one, an intimate one.
A vapor that flames when you care.
This addictive fetor to foe.
Of nicotine, sweat, and lewdness.
Is a muse to you and I.
That cigarette set the mood, and you set me in.