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Notes03/26/2020
Floyd
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Floyd
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Tentacles of tobacco and the depths of childhood
Colorrado: Colorful flowers tumble aimlessly, fruits fall out of the bottle, short little waves dance into the brown cinnamon shower, which produces foam sugar from warm spicy clouds falling down, lies down on liquorice squares as soft cinnamon molasses. The confectionery celebrates vigorously. No hour.
Erna's case: Grandma Erna was a night guard and seamstress in the castle of a Schaumburg prince, she smoked Reval divided into halves on sand-coloured laces and had a silver-coloured case with black leather trimmings. Already the brown confectionery with liquorice as molasses washes into Erna's case and mixes with spicy tobacco, hardly leather, but all the more benzoin. The memory pales, quickly scattering only faintly Virginia and Burley in the dark and bittersweet memory of childhood for two or three spicy hours.
The honey eye in the semolina: In thoughts back to blurred time, to blurred pictures of the child, there was the anticipation of the highest pleasure, an idealized moment. That was the honey eye in the semolina in the still unmoved sweet and tart scent, which sank darkly into the depths of the beige porridge as if into a wishing well. Here now an eye of tobacco and amber molasses swims past me, stretching dark tentacles in the white-gold depths of the vanilla-benzoic porridge. It sleeps quietly on the skin for one or two hours, then it's over.
(With thanks to Gschpusi)
Erna's case: Grandma Erna was a night guard and seamstress in the castle of a Schaumburg prince, she smoked Reval divided into halves on sand-coloured laces and had a silver-coloured case with black leather trimmings. Already the brown confectionery with liquorice as molasses washes into Erna's case and mixes with spicy tobacco, hardly leather, but all the more benzoin. The memory pales, quickly scattering only faintly Virginia and Burley in the dark and bittersweet memory of childhood for two or three spicy hours.
The honey eye in the semolina: In thoughts back to blurred time, to blurred pictures of the child, there was the anticipation of the highest pleasure, an idealized moment. That was the honey eye in the semolina in the still unmoved sweet and tart scent, which sank darkly into the depths of the beige porridge as if into a wishing well. Here now an eye of tobacco and amber molasses swims past me, stretching dark tentacles in the white-gold depths of the vanilla-benzoic porridge. It sleeps quietly on the skin for one or two hours, then it's over.
(With thanks to Gschpusi)
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Ronny1987
