I’m having a serious problem,
There’s something wrong with me:
Ever since the arrival of spring
I’ve been suffering perfume ennui.
I hope that it’s ‘just a phase’
(And I hoped Tom Ford had the cure:
But it isn’t so, the feeling won’t go);
I’m dependent on March’s allure
To shift my arse into gear,
Make me laugh and then sigh, ‘Phew,
You know what’s true? I love smells, I do!’…..
Meanwhile, here’s my Tom Ford review.
The scent comes
on little cheese feet
It sits smelling
of stilton and roquefort
with still life flowers
and never moves on.
Whirl up,spring –
whirl up your sappy growth
smother your great woods
hurl your green over us,
cover us with your spools of moss.
The incantation of this smell in the vial
Yellow in a sweet sharp place.
Mr. M7 shows
His bits to Dzongkha’s lofty
Temples. The result!
Noir de Noir
Sweet red blossoms drop
Petals in honey today.
Is this all black is?
Unlike the others
It quite fits its name. Sweetest,
simplest of them all.
so much depends
glazed with morning
beside the sewage
(Apologies to William Carlos Williams, HD, Carl Sandburg, Ezra Pound, and the haiku form. I liked Moss Breches and Bois Rouge the most. Next time, I’ll be reviewing Blue Sugar and Hai Karate in the style of Wallace Stevens.)
Painting: ‘Ennui’ by Walter Sickert (who, fact fans, crime writer Patricia Cornwell believes to be the real Jack the Ripper…)