Lluvia

The restless road

Sighs and turns over

In her sleep–

My only bed partner.

The rain taps an inquiry

Or invitation at the glass,

As I sigh back in the

Language of streets.

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Rumi Nation

“Faith in the king comes easily in lovely times,
but be faithful now and endure, pale lover.
No cure exists for this pain but to die,
So why should I say, “Cure this pain”?
In a dream last night I saw
an ancient one in the garden of love,
beckoning with his hand, saying, “Come here.”
On this path, Love is the emerald,
the beautiful green that wards off dragons,
I am losing myself.
If you are a man of learning,
read something classic,
a history of the human struggle
and don’t settle for mediocre verse.”

I wake to find you gone

David Bowie is described as “the best-smelling human I ever met”, by Arcade Fire musician Will Butler.

The Thin White Duke’s fumes came up in Butler’s conversation with BBC 6 Music‘s morning goddess Lauren Laverne last week while promoting his debut solo album Policy.

Never one to let an intriguing detail slip away, Laverne pounced, insisting firmly, “I am going to require some more adjectives. How would you describe the smell of David Bowie?”

Butler replied:

You walk into a room, and you’re like, “Something’s different. I’m in a different dimension. It smells so good in here!” [And then you realize] “Oh, David Bowie’s here.”

It smelled like if an ancient pine forest had a massive forest fire — but like, a month ago. So you get the new growth of the grass and the moisture, but still there’s an undercurrent of pain. But also of smoke, so kind of like marshmallows…? It’s powerful.

 

I spent hours dreaming of conversing with Bowie, but I will never know what he smelled like. I curled up next to a boy that smelled right to me and was able to share just platonic touch and breathing. There is a girl I love, but she doesn’t smell right to me at all. We are mammals, and I have more sense than sex.

Stabled

kept amongst the horseflesh–

you have an eye for what you like to ride.

something that kicks and purrs and moans

beneath as you straddle astride.

Does it matter if the tires grab the road,

or the hands grasp the sheets?

If the engine chokes or the throat is throttled–

if it’s the squeal of agony or rubber on the street?