"olfactory" poems
There just isn't enough febreeze
to rid the room of the haze
Of a dog **** strong and silent
It kind of puts you in a daze
It kind of sneaks in, then it hits you
An olfactory h-bomb in your face
Meanwhile, he just lies there
He's wiped the room with **** mace
There is no middle ground here
They always smell like something died
Like he caught a squirrel in the garden
Now, it's rotting his insides
Dog farts, are a weapon
That our army has not used
In fact I told them in a letter
In their reply, they were amused
"We've tried to duplicate it"
"A killer weapon... stops the heart"
"But, our scientists just aren't able"
"To reproduce a strong dog ****
"Thank you for your consideration"
"We'll let you know, if we succeed"
"We agree with your kind letter"
"dog farts escape and then they breed"
Sometimes when a dog farts
It makes a noise, he turns around
"my god, I smell incredible"
is the look comes from my hound
So, if you've never smelled a dog ****
And your dog just sneaks one out
Do yourself a favour
Do not feed him brussel sprouts.
Jul 19, 2012
Jul 19, 2012 at 2:44 PM UTC
Thank you for the memories,
The unexpected, sudden hits of nostalgia
Taking me back to carefree days
Of playing football after a summer rainstorm,
Of laughing in woodwork class,
Of my grandmother's awesome cakes.
Like time travel on the cheap,
You weather away the years,
And the strata of cynicism and regret,
Momentarily eroding my reality,
Revealing the manchild at my core,
Allowing him the briefest chance to once again explore.
But these are unpredictable reveries,
Three dimensional snatches of memories.
It's time they developed some kind of smell recorder,
Just like sights and sounds can be held for posterity.
But such technology would not compare to my physiological wonder;
Magically transforming scent into vivid memories.
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 1:57 PM UTC
Consumed by the constant rolls that play
Developed so well, recorded so well
Chasing the aroma that gently caresses the keys of the grand olfactory organs
Sinking into the fibers that catch me when I’m melting
They remember the tight grip that I’ve imposed on them
The grip imposed on me
Yet I want to sift through
Entangled by the loose strands I can’t help but to make vulnerable
The sway in the tongue that rolls tones so heavy
Leaves me tender
Such fervor unfolding itself, irritating the chests it lays on
Ethanol giving shoves until the words rupture into your gaze
Listening for more in hopes the shower could saturate me again
Hopeful and tender, I immerse you in ego
Later washing away everything that froth before our eyes
Then repeating the same intoxicating copulation
Until the light breaks through and I’m presented an abbreviated endearment
Leaving me instilled until the next time it’s decided times can concur
Jan 12, 2019
Jan 12, 2019 at 10:03 AM UTC
Poor little octopus.
Big head and eight tentacles
but no ***** ***** or testicles.
What's that, you say? Then how do these poor little cephalopods
buck such terrible odds when they feel like a ****** agenda
and they don't have any pudenda?
Well, it's quite simple, really. He hands her ***** on a tentacle
and what do you suppose?
She says, thank you very much, and sticks it up her nose!
Honest. No dinner first or shoulder massage,
she just whacks it up her nasal passage. You can be quite sure
this is an amazing olfactory aperture.
So the moral is, don't complicate a simple process.
When you're feeling frisky, *** need not be tricky.
Just consider the inventiveness of the octopus with no ***** or a ********
Because it's the ingenuity of the octopus, not it's ****** act,
that we should court. Compared to the octopus,
the human nose is naught.
It's too high up and tight for such naughty, wicked sport.
Also, such a human act is fraught with political incorrectness.
A gentleman who tries this little rort to get the girls to snort
and says, up your nostril, madam, might all too well
receive a rude retort. Or even worse!
I say herein lies food for thought.
Mike T Minehan
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 5:15 PM UTC
Listening to the song ‘daddy, super daddy’,
Worried and sad thinking about the father long gone,
While reading the news of a father who killed his girl child by hitting her against the wall
To some fathers and children
A father and son didn't feel anything more than that.
Remember uploading in Facebook, the news of the soaring price of tapioca in five star hotels
The tsunami of saliva which the tender yellow tapioca Crowned by curry leaves and red chilly created, is in the throat.
Today noon,
After lots of news
I am cooking tapioca raw
A green bottle is nearby
When the smell of cooking tapioca with salt hit the olfactory senses
Father came
You don’t have to be the Son of God to resurrect the dead
Told Jesus that just the smell of cooking tapioca is enough
Compound divided into patches, ashes, manure,
Properly cut tapioca plants
Mother rushing to get the rice gruel
Between play and squabbles
A lad is walking around with torn trousers, shirtless
Tapioca, tapioca, tapioca
Tapioca, tapioca, tapioca
For sleeping, eating, hunger
Faith,
Tapioca, tapioca
phoo
For rice gruel, mid noon
At twilight when hunger develops faith
For last supper,
Dried tapioca
Lucky that one who was born after an enema
Was not named ‘black sheep’
With a green chilly, raw
In the shade of the green bottle
When I touch the tapioca,
Daddy is dancing
Daddy
Super daddy.
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 8:21 AM UTC
In department store foyers, free samples sprayed,
A collision of cosmetics muddle the air.
The olfactory overpowered by such obvious odours,
Why do natural notes disconcert you?
Not the gym heavy sodden or overworked,
Recognition of an individual, whilst eyes remain shut.
Faint trace of the familiar or frenzied pheromones,
A headiness misplaced by the cologne wearing clones
Preference for the perfumed, the artificial sweetener.
Marketed meticulously
Musk manufactured yet not made by man
Of flowers dear, of oils and compounds.
Fresh, fruity, citrus or spiced
Artificial aromas keep your own scent disguised
Society simulates this sophistication of the senses,
Masking yourself from me as you are wooed,
Accustomed to this attraction, till you let down your defences
How shall I know you when you are ****
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 6:10 PM UTC
balking, then walking into the suburban night,
I have escaped the TV, the PC, the clutter of memories
and the last two hanging, breasty incandescent bulbs in the galaxy,
soon to have their filaments burn out amid the indifference
of florescent pigtails and their infinite, incessant hum
I have escaped into this night
marching on, marching on
the sullied, sacred sidewalk squares
past the dentist’s house, past the woman whose husband was murdered
by his best friend over a case of beer, and had her eternal fifteen minutes on Dr. Phil
past the retired educator, past the woman who…hell I don’t know what she does--she drives a gold Avalon
and never retrieves her Sunday paper before noon
marching on, marching on
I count cadence, move as if I am headed
to another battle, and I am, but I won’t see my enemy tonight
he is yet on the black horizon, waiting for me, and you
marching on
when I pass the widow’s house a second time, a third (?) time
I smell her cigarettes and see the orange glow in her garage, like
a lonely firefly moving to and fro, in the universe she creates for it
before flicking it to her oil stained concrete graveyard, stomping it out
never to let it fly again, though by my next circle she will have birthed a new one
and given it a foul fickle journey of its own
marching on
a truck passes me on my final lap
its fumes mixing with the cool moonlight
I hold my breath, wanting neither lunar light
nor carbon monoxide for my evening repast
when I breathe again,
the scent of tacos soothes my olfactory,
I do not know its greasy origin in this dark place
nor do I care, but I inhale again more deeply
daring the odor to tease me again
and help me forget what
I escaped to find
marching on
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 9:33 PM UTC
We can make this edible
without utensils
In a strange, menuless kitchen
Well, can you not make a salad?
Take a cucumber of memory
Slice it so thin that none of the recollections hurt anymore.
Mince some olives so fine
Their oil leaks onto the cucumber like OK.
Add the pulsing flesh of bright red tomatoes
But don’t slice them
Just squeeze them with your hand
Until they explode like wet epiphanies
And dare to dice a garlic clove
Without turning your nose away
As invisible olfactory reality
Assaults you with truth so pungent
That ECT would pale in comparison
To that very assault on your boundaries of understanding
And then toss the whole thing
Watching how it changes color and texture
And just when you both start to get hungry
And you both want to cry
The 50 minutes are over.
Dec 23, 2011
Dec 23, 2011 at 11:08 AM UTC
Phanerogams are plants which produce seeds.
The wanton harlot may be laid against the wall, with legs splayed, and may also have given birth to unbridled rage.
However, even though such stages of development can be entitled as “son of a ***** it is worth noting that all behaviour has meaning, my darkened companion of presumed sophistication.
The scholastic scribes will etch their wisdom upon the hardness of our vile vanity.
I hold in my hand a gothic stone, where those who stand before the courts accused of heresy and witchcraft can plead innocence before chanting crowds of bloodlust.
The reaper will gather the harvest at Lughnasadh, whilst the olfactory nerve propagates her funeral games amidst the cutting of ancient cornfields.
As we perch upon the gallows end, let us join hands and chant the mantras of old.
Photosynthesis is a forensic entrancement where there is no rest for the sinner.
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 11:43 PM 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
Black candles burn in the same manner as the wick of life diminishes in certain uncertainty.
Pursue what is considered to be attainment whilst geological mockery echoes her laughter in the canyons of inevitability.
We are on the precipice of conception. Do you believe it?
Intellectual supremacy bows her head in humble acknowledgement of eternal principalities.
Give gratitude to the universe, because there is simplicity in what you consider to be complexity. Stop fighting destiny and embrace nirvana.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 3:47 PM UTC
Custard Tarts
A mouthful of sweetness
yellow;
crust;
chewed slowly, savoring
and the mind goes back
along olfactory pathways
etched long ago
back to turbulent times
of teenage years
and custard tarts, with cinnamon sprinkles
your Dad brought home for Saturday lunch
after working,
trying to keep a bankrupt business afloat
plugging the holes of ineptitude
as the ship sank lower week by week.
A sliver was handed out with the coffee
devoured by all at the table
not much else to remember
except the coldness, the distant demeanor
a start contrast to the warmth of the pies
made with love at the bakers
custard tarts, now and then
sweet!
Malcolm Davidson December 18, 2013
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 4:37 PM UTC
If you drive down route 235,
the lonely parallel line of route 5,
running through St. Mary's County, Maryland,
between the intersection of Old Three Notch road
and St. Andrew's Church road,
and the liquor store at the corner of Mattapany--
you must do so with a fat wallet,
and a growling stomach,
who barks at the flashing signs
of the sparkling chain restaurants--
wafting their familiar scents out the windows
and onto the busy street.
Utterly beleaguered every which way by these olfactory factories,
your mouth waters and your wallet lightens
as the tantalizing sensations
permeate your vehicle.
So you cave;
another lost soul vacates the street at Restaurant Alley,
under the prowling searchlights
and the intoxicating smells lingering like a dense fog;
You linger in your purgatory with glee.
You exit satisfied, patting your abdominous belly
and lifting your smiling face to the sky
in thanks to the gluttonous gods
who rain down these chain restaurants
from the heavens.
A satisfied sigh seeps out of loose lips,
barely hanging on to your fleshy face,
so ruddy and fat.
You act like your stop was something novel,
like it wasn't routine to acquiesce to these temptations;
you return to your car to continue your roamings
down restaurant alley.
Sadly, a full stomach won't stifle a querying nose,
and your senses are soon at it again;
just as the waiters and waitresses,
cooks and busboys--
are back at the window, leaning outside
with their clamorings and bustlings and cookings--
You pretend to entertain willpower as your copilot,
but even if that were so,
your senses would still be at the wheel,
with your mind bound and gagged in the trunk.
Restaurant Alley goes on for miles and miles and miles,
seemingly endless in the permeating fog of
burgers and pancakes and pasta and chicken and fries and burgers and soda and ice cream and beer and pasta and wine and America and pancakes and steak and appetizers and desserts and entrees and specials and kids menus and burgers and chicken and pasta and fries and burgers and ice cream and salad and burgers and soda and eat and eat and eat and eat and eat!
There's nothing to eat;
there's nothing to do but eat in Restaurant Alley,
on route 235 in St. Mary's County, Maryland.
So fasten your seat belt,
and loosen your waist belt,
and take a doomed trip down the endless roadway--
where you are dragged, shackled to food chains
that haul you from the perdition that is the lobby's waiting room
to be seated with loved ones at the mercy seat of Ambrosia.
Mar 5, 2016
Mar 5, 2016 at 5:02 PM UTC
I walk the streets,
Passing by strangers,
Exchanging glances and awkward smiles...
My arms wrapped around my own body
Trying to give warmth to myself,
Trying to stop the intense wind from blowing me away...
The street lights flicker and...
your scent...
your scent... ling-....
-ers...
Lingers....
Memories flow with each foot step.
Your scent lingers...
Your scent lingers...
Your scent lingers...
My eyes brightens,
My heart beats wild,
My mouth curls into a smile,
Sadly followed by a sigh...
I sigh as your scent lingers,
And I cannot hold you....
Not even your fingers.
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 2:11 PM UTC
His sweat smells like Benneton
Fresh against the searing sun
I close my eyes and breathe in
The breeze that carries his fleeting aroma
Black currant
Bergamot
Cotton flower
Water
Cedar
White musk
Apr 14, 2011
Apr 14, 2011 at 8:25 AM UTC
The fog here is thick, until you step into it.
The storm rages until you get to its eye.
I wish this same principle could be said of me, too.
But like a gas giant, you could slip right through me with
the smallest amount of pressure.
There is no calming sense of self at the core.
Gravity does not apply to me.
There’s a boat on the lake cutting through the fog. And then nothing.
More waves.
More birds.
The fog covers it all up again.
The sun slinks and the tide comes in, or is it out? Does it matter?
The moon controls it in some way—the push, the pull of the waves.
At least the lake looks blue today,
looks green today.
The geese are in the water now. The families are packing up.
The ice cream shop is closing.
And I do not remember if I was ever here with you.
This, of course, is a collective you.
Could mean you, my reader,
could mean one specific person,
or two
or three
or four;
could be whoever I'm thinking of when I reread this to myself.
That’s the funny thing about the litany of loss.
It all starts to congeal.
Waves crash against the rock. Starts to chip away, create something new.
That’s what memory does.
It’s not permanent. It’s malleable.
Flexible. Bendable. Moldable.
It smells like lakewater. Like
fish and sand and mud and
gulls and rocks and shells and
algae and fog—thick, thick fog.
Smell is supposed to be one of the biggest memory triggers, and yet
I cannot place a single memory of you here.
And that’s mildly crushing.
So I would take you here:
to where I wish the air was
saliter and less earthy.
to where I come sometimes to think.
where the clouds are so thick and puffy and
the setting sun makes them look like cotton candy on the Fourth of July.
where the sun’s reflection on the water
turns the green lake pink.
where the geese are back out of the water and
onto the shore.
I would take you here with me.
Into a new memory.
Homemade. Handmade. DIY.
Aug 24, 2021
Aug 24, 2021 at 12:46 AM UTC
Shartles the rodeo clown
his tidy whities speckled, with brown
no fear to display, clowning away
staring the steers out, and down
He's the epitome of perfect poise
over the tumult, and all of the noise
in barrel to hop, his *** cracks, and pops
the bull's olfactory senses, destroyed
Saving the cowboys his rule
using each and yes, every tool
as he's feeling the need
his wife at home pleads
"not in your underwear, stool!"
He's a part of the annals and fame
everyone knows his clown name
Shartles ever will be
rodeo history
with just his bowels
too blame
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 9:30 PM UTC
Las Ramblas takes me into the olfactory and gustatory folds of a multicolored bocadillo, which led me to the breathtaking and fearful tunnels of El Chorro.
I have identified those at Sants who maintained deviant motives and gazed upon the beauty of those tree-lined streets of fountainous resignation.
Nevertheless, the combination of manchego and chorizo leads me to those meandering roads of Andalucia where the Sierra Nevada can be witnessed from festivals in Pastelero and Villa Nueva in a midnight breeze.
The best sopa de acho is to be found in Antequerra.
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 10:12 PM UTC
She reminds me of a foxglove
Eyes drawn to her like steel to a magnet
She reminds me of a foxglove
Her sweet perfume an olfactory pleasure
She reminds me of a foxglove
Tall, slender, beautiful
And just as poisonous
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 8:25 AM UTC
Let us mine into the depths of Shakhty, and scorn the Western state of communist superintendence.
We are embroiled in a political and industrial conglomerate where cold wars lay the foundations of unstoppable monstrosities.
Converse with Andrei Romanovich Chikatilo, as you splatter milk across the surface of your psychological cereal, and raise questions around the episodic nature of criminal profiling.
I love the olfactory beauty of a railway station, whose stench is dissimilar to the pastures of raunchy and deadly opportunities which result in Rostov butchery.
Nevertheless, it is rooted in crop failure and the enforced collectivization of agriculture.
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 10:11 PM UTC
Touch
You cannot lift or load it,
over your shoulder, throw it,
to best assay its weight -
is it ponderous, full of big *** gravitas
or a snack, a parfait desert,
a haiku delight?
You cannot touch it,
but it can touch you,
It can grasp both your shoulders,
shake you from complacency,
put its hands upon thy throat,
gasp emit, a scream demanded,
paint whimsy lines on thy face,
from ear to ear.
See
With yours eyes, by a mere glance,
true reveal its length,
stanzas multiple or an itty bitty ditty,
but this gives no value clue,
Ogden Nash vs. Tennyson,
in two minutes make you laugh,
in twenty, make you beg, mercy!
Smell
Some Poe poems do stink,
befouled mushrooms in
a dank place, some require nerve to read,
but your olfactory be ill suited for
poetic deconstruction and criticism.
Hear
Wake you with kisses upon thy face,
inject love poems into thy ears,
straight to the brain verbal crack *******
yet even the hearing the whisper
of words from my lips,
is an insufficient,
sensorily speaking methodology,
of how a poem, to best comprehend
How then?
If touch, vision, smell and cursory hearing alone
can't essence capture, what then, weary reader,
is the supposed Laureate's approved analytical tool?
Taste
Each letter, a morsel in your mouth,
Each phrase, a fork full of pleasure,
Each stanza, a full fledged member
in a tasting menu,
Perfect only in conjunction
with the preceding flavor,
and the one that follows, and the one that follows.
Taste each poem upon thy tongue and then pass it on,
you know how....
Each word, whether chewed thoroughly,
or lightly placed upon a bud for flavor,
needs the careful consideration of your mouth.
Feel the light pressure of the tongues tip
upon the roof of your mouth
and the exalted exhalations of
air rushing past thy cheeks
as you messenger breath from
your chest to be shared with the world,
over the poem's interpreter, your tasting lips.
*As I lay each word down,
a brick by brick edifice construct
of mine own design, I am sated, fulfilled only,
when with I see your lips move
as you savor my words,
my taste you share,
and we are closer for it.*
***Deaf, dumb and blind,
all such travails can be conquered, assailed,
but when I cannot, no longer anymore taste
my poems upon thy lips, then I breathe no more.***
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 4:22 PM UTC
drinking the red wine bottle
that you had forgot and left behind.
my olfactory bulb at an aglow
you’re
the Edison of my sense,
a Tesla to my mind’s currents.
a solemn sacrament
and communion of us.
remembrance and remission
of our deeds, with
the transfusion of you
into me
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 4:03 PM UTC
I cannot not how you smell
so I project my own desire
onto your unknown skin.
Patchouli. A scent that
makes him instantly goofy
and transports me at once
to the decade before
you even drew breath.
Even now that scent
on a crowded street
turns my head in wonder.
Scent, taste and touch:
our first mammalian memories.
Do not be troubled lover,
I will love and linger
on any olfactory lingerie
you care to wear or none.
My second favorite is just
sunshine on bare skin.
But any whiff of you will
become part of my heart
and I will inhale you
deep into my soul.
~mce
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 5:41 PM UTC