Blue Shotgun Lantana

"As other spirits sail on music, mine, oh my love, swim on your perfume." Charles Baudelaire "Sometimes you find an old bottle from which the soul returns." Charles Baudelaire "Smell is a Word. Perfume is Literature." "There are no women who do not like perfume, there are women who have not found their scent." Marilyn Monroe "Blue Shotgun Lantana" She wasn’t sunshine and roses nor milk and honey her halo tortured sustainable trash avid and quite forward no siree, she was the deepest claret blood red poppy black ink injected ripe bush plum, burnt apricot and fresh buttered cinnamon buns on Sunday mornings scarfing religiously strong lux vitae black tea, no sugar, the milk spoons standing up to attention, "VC" pausing swords fountain tipped dipped in Private Reserve velvet black ink sliding in embossed buff a logos for good measure staccato clickety clack gif repeating clickety clack the bell dings a return like schools in, "I had written him a letter, which I had for want of better knowledge, sent to where I met him", Banjo by heart like touch typing electric IBM vogue stylish "with it", then, handwriting like exotic Victorian calligraphy debates around the table jam spread rosellas reaching for Rose's lime marmalade raspberries petulant then gone all cheeky chirping adding copious lashings like cream on toast, then much later down the track like a runaway horse racing headlong towards unstoppable train, the sophisticated harbour mother of pearl oyster clams salty and pink flesh opening foxgloves racing rising purple digitalis pounding echoes of silver cut grass the lawnmower voice declaring stand to attention incoming collection fresh for the dump Drayton and home to plagues and bitzer pups ghosts of Ascot whispering childhood memories and future matters to be heard a letter opened the message is "mark my words finding good in that one is like finding a grain of sand in a sea of mud, leave while you can, you must" the recalcitrant child inside knows best, so parks the letter in a jewel box and at that point, forgets the message in word said; there is tennis to be played in short short skirts Later Alcatraz calls haunted by kangaroos and flying monkeys that ride the back as if in wild surf all seeking dark games on a suitable civilised fast played squash court the backhand is vicious like 6 ft under drowning in quick sand rain, rain go away echoes of canons pounding against an eggshell blue sky gone plunderously dark and lightning shorn breeze of eucalyptus singular solitary phantom leaves small story tornados chapters scattered like puzzle pieces and coils of taught rough hemp rope swinging in the windy noose of war insolent like a strung hammock languid and pregnant leaking mother's milk like white sap from an umbrella tree atomic hormones a life gravelled by short gavel rat-a-tat-tat like bullets expelled 100 per cent assassinated in slow movements an opera requiring sunlight soap how to avoid contact, two sentences guilty, not guilty your honour, her honour the sound of closing gates min min are numbers gaols for ghoulish light blue shot gun lantana smothers the forget-me-nots electric pulsating storm warning heat waving glowing sensual secretions like sugared syrup dripping luscious and eloquently decadent tasting notes rising like music tilling substance in the soil of lost poetry naked skin scent of bush lychee, exotic oranges, green ants, and sweet stinging myrtle lemon drenched strawberries and Armand de Brignac Rosé broken crystal, a hint of tiger balm, citronella and remnants of mosquito net gunpowder popcorn aphids, emerald gems bleeding pomegranates dipped in honey the kiss from bees pressed by hornets manna on lips brushing eyelids of nightingales listening singing their sweet lullabies and serenades while warm skinned pungent bovine being milked electric watch on chewing their cud standing barefoot in steaming waste between the toes, and they enjoy it; a pop of pink lemonade behind the ears for good measure a breast loosely exposing Rosæ Crucis crown an emblem worn once like a pistol on a warm hip the brain of a sheep gone black and riddled over the edge sharp like Hunter S. and serrated fed from cans of worms ingested ravenously sustainable trash avid and quite forward her halo tortured she was Lilith ravishing and ravaged in an antique Lalique vintage soap box Pandora kept gems dog-eared copies of old books papery rum diaries buried for compost la fleurs du dechat found in le rien barbed wired bound by blue shotgun lantana buried under petals, the roots of spreading tangerine bougainvillea and honour guards of colour twilight amethyst jacaranda nowhere near normal subset, planted in the fixated boring and mundane avid and quite forward hope kept heaven scent below gloaming halo tortured she was lost territory unclaimed lost property she was moonlight and orchids The label on the bottle half buried, covered in spider web, read: "Blue Shotgun Lantana", Fragrance of Dark Night Not Dead (LadyLabyrinth / 2022) Les Fleurs du Déchet https://youtu.be/NCvt4BAHE3c "The Main Thing" / Bryan Ferry https://youtu.be/0hXGpkvrMeE "The Chauffeur"/ Duran Duran https://youtu.be/MCF2nMrQde8 The Edge "There is no honest way to explain it, because the only people who really know where it is, are the ones who have gone over." (Hunter S. Thompson) le rien ; le néant Rosæ Crucis https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ancient_Mystical_Order_Rosae_Crucis digitalis https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Digitalis lantana https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lantana_(film) Banjo https://allpoetry.com/Clancy-of-the-Overflow rosella. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rosella https://www.theseedcollection.com.au/blog/Rosella-Jam