Not Unlike a Garden
My sweet love,
To my senses wond’rous reek
Is pungent, wafting, balmy perfume.
Like a rose, sweet love, you stink.
Like the skunk
Whose butt blows sea breeze air, your
Most welcome presence refreshes all
When you saunter through the door.
When you leave
The room, your scent lingers on
Like the fog of a titan arum
Oh, how I wish you weren't gone.
Oh, to rest
Against your neck where the glands
Leak odoriferous pheromones
I'd be putty in your hands.
Why, Hello There
Welcome to Defective Poems: where romance blooms and connotation means nothing. To kick off these shenanigans I've written a memoriam stanza about a particularly fragrant person. This type of poem was often used by Alfred Tennyson, though it's safe to say that his writings were far more serious and somber. But what's the fun in that?
My husband has been out for some weeks, and will continue to travel for a few months more. He returns on the weekend, but most days between Sunday evening and Friday evening, he's all over the most boring parts of the country working. So I'll dedicate this poem to him: the man whose natural scent is quite pleasant...until he starts sweating. Then, I think, the titan arum may actually be an accurate description—I love you, honey!
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