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Notes10/30/2020
Floyd
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Floyd
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55
In the rising of the night
Her black eyes seem arcane, the dolphic gaze indistinct, impossible to read them, space and time are unknown to me. Her face rose above me like the night. She whispers but does not move her lips She cleans my mind with menthol from myrtle, sprinkles me with flowers of bitter marigold, the strictly aromatic aniseed snails and covers me with leaves of tangy and spicy laurel. Ethereally the half-silk ointment shimmers, her dark eyes like twilight stars. Eukatchouly hisses them with a starry face. I do not understand her words yet.
Then she embeds me in bitter earth of dark patchouly under mists of myrrh, which balsamic already spread over the ointment, inside small cinnamon dots of cassia shining, she rubs dry shoots and brushwood on my body, sweet and woody and sharp like fresh nutmeg.
Patchoulyptus, she conjures up my balsamic bed, which now becomes boggier, softer and deeper. I sink on a cedar barque into the eucalyptic earth, resinous, warm and balsamic and yet medically ethereal. Am I connected with the goddess forever, anointed, preserved and immortal?
After six seven hours she disappeared quietly, she had only stayed with me for so long.
Then she embeds me in bitter earth of dark patchouly under mists of myrrh, which balsamic already spread over the ointment, inside small cinnamon dots of cassia shining, she rubs dry shoots and brushwood on my body, sweet and woody and sharp like fresh nutmeg.
Patchoulyptus, she conjures up my balsamic bed, which now becomes boggier, softer and deeper. I sink on a cedar barque into the eucalyptic earth, resinous, warm and balsamic and yet medically ethereal. Am I connected with the goddess forever, anointed, preserved and immortal?
After six seven hours she disappeared quietly, she had only stayed with me for so long.
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