"aftershave" poems
do you ever wonder
about the difference between
looking at something
and the hallucination created
when looking past it?
if you look at your hand
it's all you can see
but if you look past your hand
there are now two of them
sometimes it's hard for me
to remember which is real
it gets me thinking
about how my father
used to wake me up
in the morning by rubbing
his stubble across my face
i spent my 11th birthday
under the assumption
that he might come back
if i drank his aftershave
like maybe if i could turn blue
if i could be his favorite color
on our bathroom floor
he would forget why he left
the paramedics were all sobing
as they pumped memories
out of my stomach
i coughed up the day the post-it note with your new address on it
burned a hole in our refrigerator
coughed up the day
the divorce papers came
and my mother
took a baseball bat to the mailbox
i've been choking on the splinters
for 17 years
it's been 17 years
since the last dinner plate
exploded on our dining room wall
17 years since my mother
started accidentally setting your place at the dinner table
17 years since italian night
at the restaurant on the corner
where the juke box
spat tired music
and like so many other things
it stopped working when you left
i guess it's no coincidence
since the juke box went quiet
that the cds in my car
only skip on "i miss you"
i've been hemorrhaging memories
for so long
and now that i'm looking back
i can no longer tell
the mirage from the truth
sometimes i swear
you showed up to my graduation
and last time
i was at your apartment
i can't remember
if the imprints of my hands
are in clay hanging on your wall
or if they were left in the mud
the day god had the audacity
to let it rain
or maybe it's like the time
i saw someone crying on a bridge
now that i think about it
i can't remember if it was me
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 12:53 AM UTC
i love you,
fresh from
the shower.
glistening and wet,
smelling of aftershave.
"coolwater" by davidoff. often aslo sandlewood,
goat soap, from the local
farmers markets.
i love you,
dressed up smart.
in a brook's brother's way
dress pants and shirt,
blue linen vest.
johnny walker silk bow tie,
untied is best. then your twist,
(not as original as you think)
converse skaties, no socks
and bone bleached cuffs,
turned up.
i love you,
in your work gear.
just come home,
you smell of sweat.
clean and healthy,
always wood shavings
caught up, in your
unruly shaggy hair.
cargo shorts and
t-shirts,
that have seen,
many days of worksite wear.
size elevens in your hands,
those big feet and freaky toes
bare, ******* in the air.
i love you,
in board shorts and rashie.
rushing into the surf,
hand in hand.
with the energetic bundle
of love,
to which we gave birth.
it is not as though,
clothes made this man,
but boyohboy, you, frame them well.
it s the heart, the chuckle
the hands, the philosphy,
the clever, erudite, caveman,
the downright,
man-dumb bloke.
that endears, your heart to
mine.
it is, that you really listen
and take the time,
to make me feel and be,
phenomenal, wise, sensual
and beautiful beside.
i love you,
best, in my bed.
moving slow and sure,
undressed, silk and velvet.
as we express,
the reality of our love
and whisper words,
well known,
and cry to heaven above.
i love you,
then, here, now and eons
on.
even after the worlds
memory of us,
is nothing,
dust upon the breeze
our love,
will carry, forth
stardust on heaven's winds
and cries of our love and ecstasy
will birth worlds anew
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 5:38 PM UTC
Pawpaw would rock by the fireplace in his favorite rocker ! The occasional whiff of Oak firewood and Borkum Riff pipe tobacco , I was hanging on to every word ! A narrative about a little boy in 1925 . Standing by his chair , as proud as I could be ! He'd look straight into your eyes without even flinching , the smell of Old Spice aftershave and Kentucky Bourbon . A shot glass with a gold rim ..A pocket watch his Father passed on to him ..Stories of a little fella from the south side of Atlanta relayed to a captive audience of one ! A starstruck grandson with a cup of hot chocolate , cap pistol , belt , holster , pajamas and house shoes ! Astonished with tales of Buffalo Bill ! Sergeant York and Wild Bill Hickok !
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 8:14 PM UTC
the gallon of arizona green tea that you only drank a fraction of.
the salt and pepper potato chips you meant to eat, but only did so in the dream i had last night.
the unmade bed that was still unmade when you flew back home, the one i still cannot bring myself to make.
the dyed green hairs i keep finding around the house.
the way you always pronounced 'mosquito' as 'mosk-it-toe' on purpose, and how you pronounced my cat's name 'sullumun' instead of 'solomon' on accident.
the partially closed closet door from the morning i drove you to the airport.
the faint smell of your sweat on my pillow left because of your hyperhidrosis.
the flannel you wore and the longsleeve shirt you doused in your aftershave, that is three sizes too big for me to realistically wear.
the empty taco bell cups in my car from your fourth day here.
the empty shopping bags from our impromptu mall trip.
the polaroids you really wanted to keep, but we couldn't find when you packed.
the pieces of you that you never meant for me to keep that i keep piecing together as though, like an alchemist, i could make you appear again though i cannot, and you are not here, you are gone.
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 4:28 PM UTC
the award for 'best sense'
goes to Touch.
let me prove it to you:
I can survive without
/seeing
/hearing
/smelling
/tasting
and though I'd love to see your eyes spark with passion
and though I'd love to hear your happiness when you succeed
and though I'd love to smell your aftershave in the morning
and though I'd love to taste your kisses created for me
I would rather cut off my tongue or gouge out an eye,
than live a day on this earth with no hands of yours in mine.
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 1:42 AM UTC
Razor on the bathroom sink and the smell of pine and aftershave
Calloused hands
Dirt fingernails
You packed and formed the soil like clay
Like paint
You were an artist, silent in the morning
Coffee before work
One beer after
One beer after and a warm dinner she made
Pine and aftershave
on the stairs
on the carpet
on the carpet on the stairs
Lean in
Lean in, kids
Lean in and I’ll tell you about them
You said,
You are an artist,
Silent and coffee in the morning
Loud and beer on the stairs,
on the carpet in the afternoon
Leather seat
Newspaper dogear
Brewers turned on
In the leather seat,
‘Turn it up,
They’re winning!’
They’re winning
They’re winning
Screen porch
Wooden door
Screen porch through the wooden door
Sitting
Bumblebee Boompa
Bumblee Boomps
In the garden
On the sink
In the kitchen
On the stairs
In the living room
On the porch
You are an artist
Silent in the morning
Loud
Loud
Loud in the afternoon
and winning
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 4:09 PM UTC
Mechanically he put out his best press
Straightened his yellowing pages
In spite of little pieces flaking off
Like dandruff
Ow !
His spine was not as strong
As in younger presses
He bathed and used aftershave
But still he had that musty air about him
He lay claim to nervous fame
As he fidgeted with the book markers
About to be given as gifts
For her , his blind date
She came in fresh in expectation
Her beauty made him full of dejection
Her cheerful voice proved
to be more than exhaultation
He fumbled for the first sentence
Of subjection , but
Managed only to say
"Please ! I'm just an open book to be read"
She eased over
And ran her fingers over his cover .
down his bindings ,
then inside his yellowing pages
She sighed ,
with pleasure ,
"Yes , this is my perfection "
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 6:41 PM UTC
If I could write you into the walls of my home,
I wonder if it’d still be standing.
Would the candlelight dancing on the wall
Remember the way your lips danced with mine?
The kitchen where we watched the birds
Dance through the trees, chasing one another
Similar to how we played tag through the hallways
And bedrooms of our house.
The bathroom where the tub fills with water like
How my anatomy filled at dusk and dawn with your love.
The living room where we fell asleep so many times
Watching our favorite movies in nothing but our skin
And the light illuminating from the TV screen.
I leave the screen on, the images flashing against
The wall where our pictures still hang.
I blanket myself in make-shift flesh and tell myself
The threads of the cover are your hands and arms.
The sheets over our bed hold your absence
Like an infant child cradled in his mother’s embrace.
Your pillow, covered in cologne and aftershave that lingers
Rests in my arms as I hug the object and pretend it’s your body.
The shower head rains water that blends my tears
Down the drain with the heartbreak I’m left with.
But your voice still sings from inside the painted walls,
Behind the picture frames, blowing in the curtains that
Cover the windows. Most importantly, you linger in the
Floorboards and inside the beams that hold my house together.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 5:31 PM UTC
The embers blushed before the caressing eyes
of my new lover reaching out to snuggle against
the flickering light of welcoming warmth
naked and close
the room smelt of subtle wood chips and ash
roasted coffee beans and aftershave lotion
sexuality.
She was radiant in her skin tone
so exposed to accentuated curves
carving the fireside flame
into a furnace of wantonness. Uninhibited.
The snow outside cocooned the cabin
into a nest of togetherness.
I found here basking on a bar stool
eyes cast deep in thought on a gin and tonic
contemplation of dejection.
" He found another woman"
" Oh yeah, I just found my own woman!"
We giggled into the glass.
"Take me home to the mountains
of your mind and share with me your
meteoric rise to a metaphoric magical kingdom
where poets live and dream!'
" I have a furnace waiting for you"
" Lets go !"
Very short introduction to ecstasy.
Two days later
I dropped her off mid-city
near a replica of the Statue of Liberty
in a shopping window full of
picture postcards.
I had enough stored in the memory bank
to write a whole new dash of fireplace poems.
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 6:55 PM UTC
there are some things,
that just smell so good:
corn freshly shucked, potatoes roasted in campfire coals, carrots fresh from the ground, then washed and stovetop roasted
basted with butter
and lavender honey.
the nape of my toddlers neck,
that clean fresh hopeful little boy smell.
coffee, straight up, freshly brewed
caramel warming,
passionfruit, strawberries, citrus any type, zested. freshly planed fennel curls, mint crushed for a mojito, roast lamb and rosemary gravy.
the smell of planed wood in the palms of my man's hands as i kiss them. frangipani, coconut tanning oil,
earth newly rained upon. popcorn popping, chocolate melting,
jasmine, orange blossoms,
a grove of pine trees.
warm gingerbread and mulled wine.
salt tang on the morning breeze.
the smell that lingers after the lovin.
garlic and ginger in a hot wok.
salt tang on the evening breeze.
prawns all sea salty and
a crisp cold beer.
sandlewood and citrus aftershave lotion on your smoothed cheek.
nectarines, apricots,
a yellow juicy peach,
freshly bitten.
apple scented shampoo daphne & lilac my nana's smell,
bay *** newspaper print and palmolive soap,
my pop's study.
rose petals crushed.
earl grey tea,
toast just before burning damper and cocky's joy
crisp fresh linen warm from the sun.
so many scents, so many smells...
these are my favourites please feel free to add your's, as long as it's clean
and above board.
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 7:10 AM UTC
They never mentioned
That the smell of aftershave
And toothpaste
Would be triggering.
Forgot to say I was destined
To be what twisted men crave -
My skinny waist,
His slithering.
Cannot sleep on a waterbed.
Fear that the waves will move
Unsteadily,
Irregularly.
Threw away purple bedspread.
Prayed its absence would improve
Sleeping,
Dreaming
I recognize his twins
At work, the store, and on the street.
Unable to breathe.
Petrifying.
Their crooked grins
Calloused hands, tight grips, yellow teeth
Calls me 'sweetie'
Triggering.
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 12:27 AM UTC
You say you've got it all figured out,
got the science down at age nine-teen.
I roll my eyes, because that's just silly.
I'm older than you by a year at least,
but regardless, I watch you hitch your
skirt up and strap your heels on before
leaving the house. You think I'm crazy
to stay around only to meander about
in my fuzzy socks and stained sweatshirt.
I'll have you know that I actually quite
enjoy my one-women tea parties with
Ms. Austin and the Bronte girls on a
Friday night. At least I won't get a head
ache from strobe-lights and my utter
confusion when it comes to pretty-looking
cocktails. I realize I probably won't be
seeing you until midmorning anyway
when you stumble rather impressively
into the kitchens still in your club clothes.
You'll make a disgusted noise at my
pillow fort, my coloring books, my
towering stack of certifiable Disney
DVDS and I will pretend not to notice
that you smell like stale sweat, alcohol,
and aftershave.
You will feel compelled to tell me all
about him, all about them, all about all
of last night--down to the last disturbing
detail--and I will burry my face in my cereal
so you can't see the faces I'm making.
Undoubtedly you are bragging
(or so you think), but really, I'd rather
not have had so-and-so pawing at me
all night, because neither you nor I
know where he's been, and I personally
find no appeal in waking up in someone
else's unfamiliar room because my comforter
is super soft and fluffy and I feel like a
princess when I go to bed all clean
and cute in my PJs. This way I can get up
whenever I want and take a shower and
be loud and not have to put the seat up
when I *** or quietly try and find my way
out of someone else's home.
Also, I'm lazy most of the time so
I definitely wouldn't like the walk
home so early in the day. I have to say
that I much prefer my crayons to your
aspirin, my forts to your mysterious
bathrooms, my imaginary sword fights
to your hike home. Most importantly,
I like waking up regretting nothing the
previous the night except that I didn't
get to watch all of Mulan and what her
reflection really shows.
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 1:51 AM UTC
My old boyfriend
used to wear a very
particular
(yet very commonplace)
aftershave.
Now and again
I'll catch a molecule
of it in the air -
in a club
or a lift
or a supermarket,
and it doesn't comfort me
at all.
No, no,
it doesn't comfort me
at all.
It’s like crossing paths with a ghost.
I found it so jarring
that it
inspired me to swap
my usual cologne
for a lesser known one,
which I mix with
another
uncommon fragrance
to create
my own
blend.
Girly?
Indeed.
But if I die
no-one will ever
be startled
by my ghost.
(Not unless
they know
which colognes
to mix.)
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 4:44 PM UTC
The lights were still on
As I lifted myself from
The air mattress
To check my back
For bedbug bites
I noticed a young roach
In the sink
He scattered quickly
Then stopped
Staring
As if to dare me
To try and **** him
He was the prideful matador
And I the swollen eyed
Stumbling bull
It was life and death
I tried to smack him
With a water bottle
But he ran and hid behind a pipe
So I took a bottle of aftershave
Tried to drown the *******
In a refreshing burning winterfresh
But he was untouched by the splash
Then he scattered across the wall
I ran and grabbed the worst book
In my collection
The premier book of major poets,
1970
They printed Simon and Garfunkel
In there
I tried to smash the
cunning cockroach
But my fingers touched the
Smashed corpse
Of a previous conquest
I quickly threw the book in disgust
And wished it was the roaches
Wife or mother
Lying dead
Smashed by an awful publication
He ran quickly
Laughing at my frustration
Proud
Then he settled in a hole
Under the edge of the counter
He was the victor
He raised his sword
Toward the sun
And stabbed me in the heart
I fell onto the air mattress
Drooling
The young roach returned to his nest
Proud
He found the fattest female
Flipped her over
With his filthy fluttering legs
He tore open her thorax
Then inserted his roach genitalia
Into the wound
Inseminating her
And assuring his legacy
While I slept
Alone
Aug 22, 2015
Aug 22, 2015 at 1:11 AM UTC
These winter nights get longer
Without the warmth of your embrace,
I sit alone, thinking about you,
Wondering when will I see your face.
My love has come
And before I know it I am leaving him
Once again on his own .
As the miles grow longer
The more our love grows.
10 months of bliss,
Heaven is not as nice as this,
I yearn to feel your kiss,
To smell your aftershave ,
To have your warm body on mine.
Being away from you breaks my heart,
An empty shell without you near,
Why do we have to say goodbye
When hello was just said.
You are my life,
The one I call home,
A man who takes care of me
On these harsh winter days.
The day will come when we grow old,
You will hold my hand as we both
Fade into the unknown.
I will love you then as much
As I love you now,
My knight in his shining armour.
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 5:45 PM UTC
The moment that cold breeze snuck up on me at Euston,
as I stood on the right side of the escalator blissfully unaware,
and playfully ruffled my dangerously short dress,
is when I must have caught the scandalousness in the air.
The specks of Spring light appearing somewhat bright,
played tricks on my mind, rather late that night.
Arms linked as the stride casually synchronized,
while the start of the weekend brought the weary streets to life.
Thighs met over two Chai Lattes in the corner of a little Cafe,
as his aftershave wrestled Cinnamon into a subtle yet alluring foreplay.
The world went by completely unaware, as we
gallivanted down memory lane in search of a future under a sycamore tree.
If only the heart could be locked away in the Tower of London,
safely among fragile jewels coerced from Sunny lands.
Instead, the unfinished kiss in Leicester Square,
has confounded it to pursue a far more adventurous plan.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 5:46 PM UTC
We are the weeping children of far distant desert lands,
We are the daughters nourished upon the ink of olive branches,
The stubble of our village was shaved off without news or trace,
Life’s bittersweet aftershave of memory still stings to this day.
We are the children with forlorn hands and forgotten faces,
We are those who have suckled the milk of honey and grief,
Our school is entombed beneath an avalanche of oppressive lies,
Our tongues string and weave the haunting tunes of broken trust.
We are the girls dressed in rags caressed by death’s pernicious smile,
We are the orphans who shelter in cemeteries dug by men of war,
Our eyes sparkle and glow with a kaleidoscopic firework of fear,
The carnation of our youth will be stitched into dry dead wreaths.
We are the sisters who buried the flowers that were our brothers,
We have frolicked under the barbed shadow of death’s high wall,
Our toys are plucked from the palm of dates sweet with our hopes,
The fresh fragrance of deliverance shall one day perfume our nation.
Oct 11, 2013
Oct 11, 2013 at 8:13 PM UTC
Smoke in the underpass,
Darkness in the subway pass,
Evil in the alley,
Shadows in Death's valley.
Into the sultry misty wood enters a pert
girl wearing a red hood and tight skirt,
the slinky material short and silky,
rising high to reveal a slash of black lace curly and *****
He grabs her from behind stifling her shout,
He forces claws across and into her lipstick mouth,
He stabs her face into the ***** stained wall,
He reeks of cheap aftershave as he throws her against the iron door.
Darkness enters her eyes and tears,
Darkness enters her mouth and ears,
Darkness enters her heart and nose,
Darkness empties inside her soul.
©Rangzeb Hussain
Jan 14, 2011
Jan 14, 2011 at 11:39 AM UTC
Purple aftershave on the corners of his lips, hairs trimmed and a gloss over the skin, peeking through the surface. Mirror ***** streaked with water a damp towel hanging over the basin.
I saw him in town today, standing on the street corner with his hands in his pockets waiting for the cross guard to let him walk. I ran so fast that the temporary glue I used to piece together major organs so that I could live, but live without emotion, grew loose. I put myself together again with washi tape from my kindergarten backpack. Placing them over the cuts his razor left between my legs.
I told myself that I would always be me before I remember that for 3 years I was yours. But right now the skies are grey and the scent your aftershave stings my nostrils. You made me kiss you on the cheek on the sickly smooth skin, you made me grow up too fast.
I set the closet where he kept me on fire with myself inside of it, deciding to burn with the ******* house instead of watching it from afar.
Knock on the old wood he opens the door to a room filled with smoke.
Jan 25, 2019
Jan 25, 2019 at 7:15 PM UTC
I buttoned you into a grave,
you were finally a queen with a crown.
I’ve never seen you that brave.
The telephone lines brought a heat wave.
I painted over our names in brown.
I buttoned you into a grave.
There wasn’t much left to save,
just your faded evening gown.
I’ve never seen you that brave.
Everything about you was concave,
your eyes, your back and your frown.
I buttoned you into a grave.
I promised to behave
and I’m sorry I let you down.
I’ve never seen you that brave.
Dusted with smoke and aftershave,
the car drove out of town.
I buttoned you into a grave,
I’ve never seen you that brave.
Jun 4, 2012
Jun 4, 2012 at 12:49 AM UTC
Fingers locked
in female hands
a riddle
like legs free of clothes
crumpled jumpers
in a corner
resembling a salad
of what-the-hell-went-on
last night greeny-reds.
Dolled up
bees' knees
next time
not a person to impress
or dazzle with a fedora
top-shelf aftershave
charcoal-black shoes
gobbling this week's wages.
Miss your mouth
completely
see if you tick
the thirty-one boxes
know nail polish
birthdays
better than second-hand
lips and teeth and tongues
and lips
stash wit in a drawer
humour under the bed.
Spot the odd one out
like finding a disease
in a bloodstream
always observe
an owl in the room
watch others hurl feelings
I miss you's about
gobbledygook
resort to stories
only your pillow knows
they want the fire
not a lonely snowman.
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 3:38 PM UTC
i like the smell of aftershave
but i'm not very fond of the hair stubbles that poke me
i like the smell of coffee
but i'm not very fond of drinking it
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 4:38 AM UTC
The psychiatrist looks young
he seems Italian
she sits opposite
looking at his eyebrows
thick
but not too much so
and his lips opening
and closing as he speaks
but she isn’t listening
she’s wondering
if he’s married
where about he lives
what size his house is
how he looks undressed
he leans forward
his words slower now
as if he thinks her
imbecilic or maybe deaf
he emphasizes his words
his Italian accent
coming through
o what wonderful eyes
what flesh
his 9.0’clock shadow
gives a blue tinged
to his skin
he gestures with hands
opening them outward
like some trader
selling her something dodgy
she can smell his aftershave
it invades her nose
makes her nerves tingle
her knees touch
she lets them spread
beneath the desk
to the limits
her nightdress allows
he sits back in his chair
his words back
to fast speed
over her head
his gestures
are by fingers now
pointing and twirling
his eyes dark
intense like Nietzsche’s
she thinks
she leans forward
air pushing
between her thighs
as she spreads
her legs
as much as possible
under his desk
life’s one big adventure
she thinks
one big dare
she puts her elbows
on his desktop
wearing no underwear
but he doesn’t know
it doesn’t show
but if it did
what then?
what would he say or do?
the window is open
the sky a bright blue.
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 3:26 AM UTC
I like you in the backseat of the car.
The first time
I took long (stabilising) breaths
because you were so close
that I could taste your aftershave
in the
limited
amounts
of
air.
I could only focus on your close proximity
and I bit my lips to stop myself from smiling
stop...
pretend to enjoy the scenery
even though your face
is a perfect landscape
that not even Monet
could create.
I fell asleep in the backseat
that night
The driver guided by the
headlights
street lights
moonlight
but I was guided by you
as you put your head on my shoulder first
saying it was okay
no-one knows us here
in the confined space
except the pair of eyes occasionally
flickering to me and you
through the rear view
mirror.
I haven't been able to close my eyes
and sleep next to someone
for so long
because I'm still a little afraid
of the dark
and even more afraid of the darkness
in my own mind
but the possibility of nightmares
jumps the gun on them all
and scares me to death.
But you got me to sleep
peacefully
and let me stay there
even though I murdered your arm
with my head
like I nearly did once to my own body
you
held my head to your shoulder
pulled me a little closer
as we went over the speed bumps
as if you wanted me have me one less disruption in my life
even if it was only for a moment.
I begged time to slow down
let me stay here
let
the
tick
tock
stop
because maybe if the clock hands
stop moving
my hands can move
onto yours
our fingers will become as intertwined
as our complementary minds.
Now,
my head is on the pillow
but it's not as comfortable as your shoulder
nor is it as warm as your arms
because I like you in the backseat of the car.
do you like me in the backseat too?
(i like you in the backseat of the car.
do you like me in the backseat too?)
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 6:11 PM UTC