Redolent

 

The smell of mannered flesh
forcing itself up the nostrils,
coaxing the downbeat soul

self-hate feeling the urge
the exorbitant behoving
flatter and flout of the self

the mind battling the pulse
buckling under the pressure
finally, giving, in.

The travellers’ tales omit
the indelible stain of shame
the sense-agripping scents
forcing itself up the nose
the cheap perf cramping the guts
at the split of night
the retching too close
the hating, right there.
Every, single, second.