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?”
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.
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?
Every hour has its story,
Of a hundred days
that flow into it like a river.
A composition of elements
that will never intersect again,
But go tumbling downstream–
to what ends we cannot know.
Some to spin the millwheel,
some to flood the fields,
And we cannot tell
if they are wicked,
in the manner they are spent.
For a virtuous hour,
may as likely turn sour,
as one concupiscent,
reaps sweetly of scattered seeds
on barren and borrowed time.
Iliad V. 364–382
Blood follow’d, but immortal; ichor pure,
Such as the blest inhabitants of heav’n
May bleed, nectareous; for the Gods eat not
Man’s food, nor slake as he with sable wine
Their thirst, thence bloodless and from death exempt.
Misericordia, heart mercy,
heat death, ardor mordant,
the love that perishes in its own flame,
what is left of a cold universe,
silent in expanse of bed and night.
When the corporeal pulse ceases,
the soul repopulates the stars.
Sic itur ad astra.
I cannot coax love back from pomegranate seeds;
What belongs to death, Hades must have.
And I am his.