AROMA OF WOMEN.
Aroma. Aroma of women or
A single woman, Arsen didn’t care
About the number just so long as there
Were women many or just a woman
Singular. He sniffs the air of the room.
Untidy, bed unmade, his clothes scattered,
Dirty dishes and cutlery on the
Side. Yes, Albertine’s scent. He knew it well.
The French tart, the Parisian punk girl.
He walks about the bed, pulls up a sheet,
Pumps up a pillow. He sniffs where she had
Laid her head, the black hairs left, the dead skin.
Yes, they’d fucked within. There’d been others though:
Alice, Bertha, Cathy, Dolly. Others
Whose names he’d forgotten had been here too.
But Albertine had been the last. He stares
Out the window, the neighbour hanging her
Washing, her arms lifted, bringing up the
Firm tits, nice arse, he admits. He watches
As she lifts and pegs the clothes, skirts, dresses,
Panties and shirts. He turns away, has had
His fill for the day, takes in her looks, tits,
Arse, and sits on the bed. He sniffs again.
The aroma’s still there, the scent, odour
Of bodies, the bequeathed juices on sheets
Dried to a stain. Who’ll be next? What’s the name?
Will it be deep love or just useless sex
The same? Albertine was a good fuck no
Doubt, pretty in a common fashion, with
Little intellect, nice legs, face and eyes.
Take what you can, his father’d said, before
Your luck runs out and their fair beauty dies.
