There’s a stink to the world today
and a hundred minutes later
nothing’s changed or changing.
...
This is why aromatic love feels
like a cat stalking a mouse,
cornered and quivering with grey.

And once a year, when it’s March
and you’re bogged down in the blues
just spit the blood into the sink

Wipe the spittle with your wrist,
wipe your wrist on your jeans,
punch the mirror reflecting back at you.

And just so you know, wrinkling your nose
does not impregnate the air around,
but moves with you, too soft against your skin.

Ah, but then again, I could be the last liar
doing the final countdown backwards,
and you’ve got to wonder why love’s stink is circular.

Its rhythmic coitus blends seconds,
into minutes into hours into days into months
into years into infinity…yes, we stink.

You've grown a lot as a poet Gwydion, good to have you posting. I like this poem.

Les

thank god for bad moods
...you succeeded in cheering me up.

amo,

Peter

Thank you Les and Peter; it's nice to be here, although very quiet!

a cat stalking a mouse,
cornered and quivering with grey.

Grat imagery throughout the poem, but these lines, especially. Well done.

Joe

Thank you Joe; this piece came about because of a stinky garbage can I had just walked by...inspiration strikes so randomly