Nosespotting

I remember that smell.  What is it?  Camp and carrots boiling slow in brown sugar.  Little boys like artichokes running everywhere, farting in the forest, looking for bears.  Deep in my nose, older than grandparents, the smell runs too in the forest, lightly then now weighty, that ancient incense, like the urge to piss in temples.  I lie in bed, on the silent koans of the sheets.  The stars fry outside like a mexican sunset.  Burnt lentils and barley, mortar in my fingernails.  Gramma, wrinkled like love, comes crawling down my nose with cookies and vodka, a chariot of twinkies abducts her, takes her straight to her charbroiled destiny.  5 smells like cocoa, i’m told, 7 like watermelon lollipops, 43 like juniper lemongrass, π’s confusing, 0’s a mess.  I lie in bed, pingpong balls leaping like marshmallows, the moon frozen in the hot wok of the night.  Worms in spring smell different than worms in fall, every dying candle knows that.  Waft of crypts, acrylics of cum.  Grampa comes, covered in mulch and foreskins, with his ax of silence, chops the worms, goes down in relief to the leaves.  The cold reek of mirrors, reeking of acidrain lakes, those mechanical perfections.  The cold reek of wires, cough syrup and puke.  You.  Wilted on our spontaneous disaster, served dishabille, rotten seaweed on the beach.  I lie in bed, lit matches in my anus, spiders toking on the ceilings, the sun burnt out in the distance like a god, mintleaf boats on breastmilk rapids coursing down to heads-on-sticks & kurtz, candyfloss & stickysmiles & countryfairs.

But it was only that woman as she passed on the platform.  I think it was her.  I remember that smell.