"freshener" poems
It's 3:09am
I'm im the library
Desperately trying to write a research paper:
'LGBT Familes'
How fitting.
Caffeine courses through my veins
Coffee overloads my bladder
Bathroom.
I hate bathrooms.
When you have no gender
The simple act of relieving yourself becomes a chore
The heavy weight of that key decision
Chokes your lungs as you stand outside the doors
Two doors.
Men.
Women.
Not me.
The choice becomes simplified:
While I sometimes pass as a man
I often do not.
I can choose the men's bathroom
The consequence of which could end in physical violence
The same hate I explain through my essay.
The same fear that plagues my community.
The women's restroom is also an option
The consequences likely less dire than the former:
Heavy side eye and the potential of yelling.
A much safer choice.
Obviously.
Per usual, I walk into the women's room.
I take three strides inside.
Then I stop.
I've never used the men's room.
My fear of violent reactions has always won.
Yet at a time like this
How likely is it that someone is inside the men's room?
Now is my chance to face my fears.
Now I have a safe chance at peeing in peace.
In a bathroom potentially more suiting
Of my gender identity
So I turn around.
Let the door slam behind me.
Half a step into the men's room
The smell of rancid ***** hits my senses
Toilet paper liters the stalls
I have missed absolutely nothing in my years in the women's room
Women have nicer facilities
A significantly more advanced hand dryer
Cleanliness
Air freshener
Men do not have these luxuries
Now I question,
Do men not take as good of care of their bathrooms as women do?
Do the workers intentionally prioritize women's sanitation?
What causes this undeniable divide?
Is the messiness of the men's room a result of their conscious decisions?
Or simply a response to societal expectation?
Regardless,
I think I'll stick to the women's room
While I add bathrooms to my compilation
Of more discrete gender inequality
Oct 31, 2017
Oct 31, 2017 at 2:23 PM UTC
So big this tiny hole opens up
And the sound blasts out so abrupt
The stench suffocates the breathing
Water comes to eyes everywhere
as **** methane fills the air
No one wants to be blamed for
the toxic air un-freshener
Everyone assumes its the ***
and moves away from her
I try to keep a straight face until
I get off the train
Then locate a rest room
and check for stains
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 11:17 AM UTC
It was a hand me down,
An old Chevy that grandpa didn't need,
It was just a little truck,
But it would do,
Blue and silver, with rust sprouting up here and there,
A creaky tailgate,
No ac, but a sunroof,
Comfy seats that held you like a race car,
The smell of dust wafting from the vents
It had a little engine that needed work,
It had old tires that needed to be replaced,
A layer of dust that needed to be washed off.
But I didn't care,
It was my first truck!
New engine,
New tires,
A deluxe wash at the co-op,
And a black ice air freshener,
This truck was born again.
Spinning tires and dust flying,
Rolling down the streets and tearing up the gravel roads,
This truck purred like a kitten.
I didn't care if people had bigger trucks,
Newer trucks,
Fancier trucks,
This was my first truck
And I loved it!
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 11:49 AM UTC
A drugstore pallid in waning light, always illuminated in halogen halos.
I am earless with music.
Black metal loud in clanging sets and blows-
foreshadowing the smell of cleaning solution,
air freshener and the outside
sweet at my back
all steeped deep in the rip roaring undertone torrent of cigarette smoke
blended with cheap perfume until I cannot tell the difference.
There is a limp familiarity to the underlying odor
born partially of personal encounter and-
nestled in the hive mind of social experience.
A distillation of regret and remorse,
of lonely,
of irrelevance;
this black hole swallows my voice the way of my ears,
eaten by rust.
Four cans of beans,
kidneys,
in cans squeezed without any power against sagging swells
melting into other curves
and I swerve close and around guiltily,
noting you only as the source of this pungent spring.
You are smiling apologies
ignorant of my apparent inhumanity-
blind to my selfish hands..
Pinioning belly flesh,
flattening,
reaching
and gaining attendance from a better man
retrieving every dropped can.
I’m retreating,
shaken,
tense to alternatively slacken.
My sweat slippery palms with whitened red sharp fingers feel foreign
and I am surrounded by razors then shaving cream,
moving from shampoo to conditioner,
the whole store is infected with smell.
Staring at nail clippers/snipers clipping touch smooth sooth my tense mind-
don’t look
**don’t
look**
I can sense little else but dread
drawing closer
you are now crouched so close I’m gagging,
taken forcefully-swept away in an olfactory flood
roiling in rot,
currents of solitude exude from your smiling sullen appearance when I turn to you
fumbling
with my electric ears,
surfacing
in a breath of Amish silence
broken with simple request
and I want to scream at you that I am not a man to ask opinions of
that it does not matter what fake nails she glues to her body
that she is excluded and I don’t know why.
I choose swirls of cream suspended within watery milk,
over childish lady bugs framed by yellow
or dots of red alternating to black,
an epitaph to a lifelike effigy.
Dec 10, 2010
Dec 10, 2010 at 1:42 AM UTC
Memories, that is all I have left,
Candid memories ever fleeting day by day,
I tried to preserve them,
Keep them sweet like marmalade,
I try to keep them,
I don't want them to fade,
But with time the corners curl up like a photograph,
And with time nothing is tangible only digital,
It's hard to hold on to things you can't feel in your hands,
It's hard to see them,
When it's not everyday,
Memories, that is all I have left,
I try to keep them..
Fresh like that pine tree freshener that swings from my car mirror,
I try to hold onto the ring of your laughter,
I try to remember the tenderness in your eyes when you gazed upon mine,
Now just a memory fading with time,
They are just memories sweeping in and out with the tides,
I try to keep pictures the only snapshots left of our former lives,
I try to look at them and imagine them come to life,
But these memories with time are fading like the colors in my hair,
All these memories bittersweet like the tattoos I bare,
They are beautiful but they sting with the air,
All these memories I keep them trapped locked in a box
May 20, 2025
May 20, 2025 at 8:54 PM UTC
Please
Don't spray
Your cheap **** all around
Like it's air freshener
I actually wear perfume
Classics: Yves Saint Laurent, Coco Chanel, Oscar de la Renta
I pay good money to stand out
So don't make me smell like you
And your cheap *** perfume
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 8:44 PM UTC
What if smells a lot like vanilla
But not like scented candle vanilla
And not like perfume vanilla
But like liquid air freshener vanilla that you’ve had in your drawer for two years and didn’t have enough left in the bottle to use the spray top so you unscrewed the lid and splashed it all over your sheets
Let it dry
Waited two days
Then invited a pretty girl over
Let her sleep in your bed
Had ***
Dreamt of forever
Took a shower
Laid back in your bed
Let her go
And then slept face down on the pillow you let her use while reading text messages about how she won’t be able to keep seeing you any more
You know, that kind of vanilla
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 1:23 PM UTC
water was showering over me
warm steam with coffee scented molecules
quenching the dry air.
a thought was in my mind:
porcelain can’t hold coffee grounds.
something nice would be fresher air
as fresh as frenchly pressed coffee.
so, in my thoughts, i dripped on the rug
and made footprints over to cup one
(it was wasting heat, losing steam)
so i used the momentum
of its northward-traveling aroma.
an air freshener was made
(as i turned the cup in my hand)
to a catapult of filtered black sand
no grounds to spill, but coffee’s scent
poured through the air as it went.
lifted level, tipped right askew,
my nostrils flared as coffee flew.
the air freshener that was thought
occupied a braid of air,
perfect aroma.
then liquid’s caught.
gathered by carpet, furniture and clothes,
coffee no longer kissing my nose.
my eyes open,
the warm steam is still around.
thoughts no longer on coffee grounds,
but rather the soap in my hair
and on warm cup one
still waiting there.
Oct 28, 2010
Oct 28, 2010 at 9:14 AM UTC
"the photographer, as well as the horrors of the warzone, also captured those brief moments of humanity."
"air freshener naturalizes the air by eliminating unwanted odours"
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 8:50 AM UTC
I should have skeletons in my closet,
but they've yet been stripped of their flesh,
and I've let them loose in this small town
for a game of hide 'n' seek.
She returned a set of my pajamas, unwashed,
her intoxicating scent lingering on hooks in my closet
where her aroma constructs an illusion.
I bury my face in them,
feeling my damp cheeks pressed into her *******
reaching down below where my hand grasps her posterior
where it takes a firm shape in the loose garments.
I dig into the scent until I go crazy;
I tell myself I'll wash them next week.
I should have skeletons in my closet,
but she's taken it on the road,
in a small town parading it down empty streets
where I can see it clearly,
her oblong sunglasses darkly obfuscating
what I perceive to be her pejorative gaze,
over a narrow ivory face,
sandy blonde hair flowing in the wind.
(I still feel, yes, that smooth pale face cupped within my trembling hands, that sandy hair tangled around my fingers reaching up the back of her neck, pressing her face more towards mine)
I look for the shallow dent
in her ubiquitous red minute two-door seater
on the passenger side, where she was gently T-boned
by a student driver practicing their three-point turn,
and the smiley-face lemon-scented air freshener
dangling from her rear-view mirror,
having lost its freshness years ago.
(I still see, yes, us in that hardware store parking lot,
in the closed evening hour,
sitting cramped in the passenger seat,
her knees on either side of me,
our shirts off and skin warm and sweaty, nervous,
trembling, trembling, lips aching and souls yearning--
where were we headed to again?)
I look for it so intensely,
I forgot my goal was to never see it again.
Young love looking for little things in a small town.
For years I play this game of hide 'n' seek,
and part of me should realize
that at some point she got up from her hiding spot
and moved on with her life.
(and no, I won't look at her engagement photos,
nor the photos of her newborn child,
nor the Happy Anniversaries and the congratulatory sentiments--
I can see them without social media's derision)
I still scan the streets
like a vulture over roadkill,
yet I thought I was the one
engraved into the grainy streets
where she commutes over my remains.
I should have skeletons in my closet,
but I let them walk out of my life
so I can chase them all over town.
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 11:02 PM UTC
I sing along to drown out the voices
My sad playlist and I sit
listless
and I stubbornly ignore myself
If you can't say anything nice
then take your fingernails
and curl off my skin
starting at the genitals
effectively preparing me for taxidermy
Off I search
Alone is notsafe
Alone is smiling crookedly
from empty bones and a few yellow teeth
My naked pieces scattered carnage
on the dank floor of my cell
covered in hotel carpet
So ******
it almost gets me off
Reminds me of venereal hookers
and air freshener
which always results in tainted pleasure
So I put on my dark circles and bags under my eyes
to fit in
and I leave the thousand unlit cells
some empty
some containing rancid bits of pancreas
and I keep climbing blindly
I lost an eye in 14D
I humorlessly squished the other as I bent to pick it up
Jul 11, 2012
Jul 11, 2012 at 5:45 PM UTC
a bus ride to somewhere
tranquil or at least to
somewhere less loud
i look high or tired or
a combination of both
what is the word...
there.
pa-thet-ic
maybe traveling with
an empty stomach helped
because normally
i would've puked
banana bread and tea by now
i've always hated shaky
drives and the smell of
air freshener
do you hear all the noise too
there's a madman shouting
in my ear, a ****** karaoke tune
and a tiny voice saying
you're immaterial
repeatedly
or is it just me
how do you function
when you feel like you've lost
an arm except in my case
it's my brain that's been missing
you should see my stash
of milk cartons
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 5:00 AM UTC
One
scent
would
always
stop
me in my tracks
The hearty,
spicy,
warm,
comforting
smell
of Pumpkin Spice
Any form
A latte
it didn't matter
A candle
it sent my mind back
A car freshener
to thanksgiving pie
A chemical illusion
to a time
filled with
laughter,
filled with
joy,
filled with
food.
This perfectly
magical
scent would
send me rushing home
I'd fling
open
my door
catch a
whiff of that
elusive
scent
My hands
would
shake
my
mouth
would
water
tastebuds
tired
of nothing
but endless
nuts and yogurt and
nuts and yogurt and
yogurt and nuts and
nuts and yogurt and
Craving
that
delicious food
that
danced in my
dreams, almost
tasting the
Sweet
Buttery
Slice
of
one
Perfect
Pie.
Only to find an
empty
kitchen, a dark
house, a
dusty
kitchen, a clean
plate, and
my mom's hopeless eyes
staring
at
the
empty
ceiling.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 5:45 PM UTC
Like the car you dumped at the junk yard, you left me an empty shell of what I once was.
You grabbed your suitcase and emptied all of me into it as soon as you found a vessel more flashy to carry your soul.
My tires weren't brand new but my tread still hugged your road with great traction.
My speakers crackle with age but I still played your favorites at your request.
I have rust and some dents, but my glass was clear enough for you to see the path ahead.
I may idle rough, and my exhaust is loud when you test my pedals with force, but I could've gotten you where you wanted to go.
You partially lifted my decals, left the burnt-out air freshener dangling, dancing on the mirror, and the lighter you lost is still in my pocket.
But I have a full tank of gas and someone new's got the key.
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 8:33 PM UTC
We felt the wistfulness and urging
Somewhere in the pale light
Slanting across our bodies
Submerged in a bed that smelled of our discarded childhoods
Tasted of our desperation and craving for love
Devoid of anything saccharine, bitter in the aftertaste
In the early morning I laid there, on top of you
Warmth trailing from your body,
Snaking across the smooth planes of my stomach
You cradling me like I wished my father could have
Fingers threading through my hair
Untangling the knots from my childhood
You spoke into my hairline,
Christened yourself repeatedly on my skin
Your voice was a Freudian call
Above the dirge of angry tidal water
Echoing from the corpses of our past
We felt the wistfulness and urging
Somewhere in the pale light
Slanting across our faces
Verdant green of your eyes hypnotizing me
I splayed my fingers against your chest
Felt your ****** harden against the soft pad
I remembered the taste of sweet tomatoes, plump, ripe
Bursting juice onto my tongue
Coffee-soaked ladyfingers
Dappled sunlight streaming through leaves
Blue cloudless sky
Peals of youthful laughter
The smell of your mother's car—Pine Air Freshener
Her rosary swaying back and forth
A religious sacred pendulum
We felt the wistfulness and urging
Somewhere in the duller light
Slanting across our skin
Our contrasting polarizing canvases
We mourned each other in our brokenness
And in the pale evening,
Tried to assemble our skeletons back together
Sep 29, 2017
Sep 29, 2017 at 12:43 PM UTC
Sloppin the hog
huntin the dog
Yo there redneck, my lady is fine
Huntin the dog
sloppin the hog
I don't make trouble, most o the time
Sloppin the hog
huntin the dog
She drives me crazy with all o her moves
Huntin the dog
sloppin the hog
I ain't lazy, sliding o'ver her grooves
Sloppin the hog
huntin the dog
Burying my bone, drinkin moonshine
Hair of the dog
sloppin the hog
Flavour stuck on me, like essence of pine
Sloppin the hog
hair of the dog
Early in morn, to rise and shine
Hair of the dog
sloppin the hog
Peeing air freshener, burnin a line
Sloppin the hog
hair of the dog
All thanks to God, I didn't go blind
Peeing green fog
burnin my log
Sinning all night, drinkin spoiled moonshine
Hair of the dog
sloppin the hog
Burnin my log
peeing green fog
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 10:05 AM UTC
Loving you is like driving
In an open lane.
There are no distractions,
No other obstacles.
Long as I am with you
everything is fine.
Loving you is like having
the radio blast your voice
through the speakers.
Your arms the seat belt that
fits snug around me
Protecting me from ****** harm.
The quirk of your smile
dangling from the air freshener
above.
Loving you is like driving
In an open lane & my lips
are the bumper to the outer edge
of my heart.
My lips follow the guideline
of the lane.
Trailing each curve of the road.
Loving you is like driving
with no destination in mind.
Just as long as I am with you
Jan 3, 2020
Jan 3, 2020 at 9:46 AM UTC
Don't let them see what lies in the depths of your bottomless orbs, conceal it behind contact lenses and a thousand coats of mascara. Dab concealer on to cover up those blemishes – cower behind foundation because you can't let them spot those flaws. Mask the tremble in your voice with raucous laughter and disguise the shadows which throttle you constantly with saccharine expressions and pretty, brightly-coloured smiles. Hide behind your layer of lies which hugs you so tight you can't breathe. Is that imperfect perfection I smell in the air? Or is that your fabric freshener? They're the same, anyway.
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 6:28 AM UTC
panhandling daily
sympathy cards all used up
tired of all this
slashes his wrists then sits down
on the curb eating pizza
his blood dripping down
his mind is on the pizza
does not care to live
EMT's take him, fix him
72 hour hold
dude's a survivor
gets psyche evaluation
returned to the streets
proudly bragging about it
to anyone who listens
came to my office
asking my friend for some change
friend's a minister
rejected, the dude cusses
picture of humility
he doesn't ask me
he knows what my answer is
done enough for him
all I can do is just wait
then spray the air freshener
Apr 1, 2010
Apr 1, 2010 at 9:42 AM UTC
*No matter what new trick he tried
A new deodorant or mouth freshener
Sideburns, swagger or rascally scowl
She yawned, wore her pretty little frown
And swore that he was playing the gem
When he was just another line in her poem
No matter what new-fangled idea he brought
She told him plain and square in caustic words
He wasn’t an iota of what she wanted or sought
So he went back to nights of pining and misery
And morning vigils for the postman’s delivery
Hoping to be more than just another line in her poem
Thinking and believing he could leave and learn
He went abroad to build his sunken profile
In places where none could ever him deride or stifle
Since there’s always some safety in anonymity
But when finally he landed on their shores again
He was still not more than just another line in her poem
So let's live and learn to read the writing on the wall
No matter what; and no matter how this order might be tall
For it matters not what fantasies or novelties you conjure
From what exotic lands or eccentric peoples far and wide
She remains spoken for by the high ideals of her imagination
And you forever will be just another line in her waspish poem*
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 2:29 AM UTC
Seen
some frogs in mall
shopping
for the mouth freshener..
Nov 7, 2018
Nov 7, 2018 at 8:46 AM UTC
Born of the earth;
He is a feast for the human soul.
His father is a velvet fungus,
who invented the cult of domesticity.
His mother is pregnant
with crisp autumn nights,
and speaks to him in
the language of the
sun and the moon.
He lives in ancient waters,
with the singing oracles
of passion, pain and pleasure.
He drives the heartland express
and his air freshener smells like musk.
He collects squished whispers from your ceilings,
and feeds them to you until Sunday morning
comes to take him back.
Jul 1, 2011
Jul 1, 2011 at 8:11 AM UTC
She walked out
In her small tottering steps
From behind the wall
Looked at me and smiled
She actually remembered me, my darling
Even after so many months,
After so many miles away from her thoughts.
Her hug is like a long lost love
Her smile is as fresh as dew drops
And she hangs on to me like the early morning rays
From the rain drenched tree tops
And I could not hold her attention any longer
And she moves on to her
New plays and new sights and sounds.
Her eyes catch up suddenly
The pen in my pocket
The twinkle in her eyes
Also catch up the mouth freshener
That I got in the aircraft.
Another play in the making
And she just wraps me around her fingers
And I get lost in her love
And her hugs
Again and again
___________
Anumeha is my younger brothers 1 year old daughter, who I met her after many months, that day.
Sep 26, 2010
Sep 26, 2010 at 10:19 AM UTC
her smell—
clean, unobtrusive and vaguely pleasant—
chemically-produced lemons.
I’m not offended by it
but I wouldn’t wear it.
I wouldn’t even use it
as an air freshener.
It would probably give me a headache after a while;
if it were any stronger,
any more vibrant and yellow,
then I’ll bet that even just one whiff
would send dizzying
tinglies into
my
brain.
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 9:51 AM UTC