Time has a whiff to my nose that makes it hum a gospel.
The moment is emerald when we botch the wrong kiss
goodbye with fury on my lips. It stinks of regret, it’s a stain on display
a history told without say.
Tonight is dinner at Nana’s – she spits three meat balls on my plate
and spells Grossoshima like it was 1945. I would barf on her tacky nails if I could.
Medic bags hung on the walls and a long table through the hall
she made diner for three thousand. Tomorrow, hunger is gone.
Sometimes we smell Fall in May because the dead leaves survived and so did Murray.
Fall stench is a foggy morning told by the last Junker out of sight
and the craters born and bold.
Murray was premature and unwanted. Nana raised him until he enrolled.
Time later, back home with a different sniff to his nose,
Murray was a different kind of gay.
Your miss-kiss is Nana and Murray afterwar.
Your love is a review of Nazism, a spellcheck on Jünkers,
a void afterhours.
Nature looks forward to making a stench out of me, or you, and to be claimed by physics and dust is luxury for the Bolsh.
O how to you this is pleasantry! Heaping a few rocks on a razorblade cut grass,
polish them like they were plates of platskis, and your soul shows content – what fucking friendly fire burdening fools.
Alas, I digress.
Two hours from now you will reek coconut oil and other such scents.
And my nostrils’ gospels shall evade the nonsense of your breath
Wishing endlessly your absence was a sight without smell.