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11/03/2020
Floyd
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Pepe drives the harvest home
Pepe had decided to put on his panic-stricken paranoid face as he walked with measured steps through the corridors of the well-filled large compartment of an old regional train. The eyes of the passengers followed him confused.
What smells like weed? Damn. Is that me? Before this, this stuff smelled like grapefruit, wet leaves and gardening. He told me to spray the rollers on it when I finished harvesting. The black bottle in the tool shed. So I harvested the whole plantation, stuffed everything into the plastic bags and then stuffed them into my rucksack. The grapefruit would help with the smell of grass, he said. It would help if it spool you up. How could I have come up with the crazy idea to take the whole harvest home by train? Pepe had found a seat, in an empty row, by the window. His backpack was wedged between him and the wall. He sniffed the fabric of his sweater, his skin. There were spicy garden herbs, rather moist, then brown-flower crumbs and hay perhaps, such sweet wood and remnants of incense, also smelled of the moist leaves of the harvest. Pepes' panic-stricken look rested on his rucksack. It seemed to glow, a bit like Hitchcock. Outside it was dark now, and through the reflection in the window, lights in the compartment now shone like amber on the warm balsamic wafts of incense, the wrapped Pepes sorrel ballads of grapefruit and grass, disappearing in the mists, the smoky warm resinous glow for hours. And so Pepes' ambivalence turned into a mossy ambergris tendency.
(With thanks to Bloodxclat)
What smells like weed? Damn. Is that me? Before this, this stuff smelled like grapefruit, wet leaves and gardening. He told me to spray the rollers on it when I finished harvesting. The black bottle in the tool shed. So I harvested the whole plantation, stuffed everything into the plastic bags and then stuffed them into my rucksack. The grapefruit would help with the smell of grass, he said. It would help if it spool you up. How could I have come up with the crazy idea to take the whole harvest home by train? Pepe had found a seat, in an empty row, by the window. His backpack was wedged between him and the wall. He sniffed the fabric of his sweater, his skin. There were spicy garden herbs, rather moist, then brown-flower crumbs and hay perhaps, such sweet wood and remnants of incense, also smelled of the moist leaves of the harvest. Pepes' panic-stricken look rested on his rucksack. It seemed to glow, a bit like Hitchcock. Outside it was dark now, and through the reflection in the window, lights in the compartment now shone like amber on the warm balsamic wafts of incense, the wrapped Pepes sorrel ballads of grapefruit and grass, disappearing in the mists, the smoky warm resinous glow for hours. And so Pepes' ambivalence turned into a mossy ambergris tendency.
(With thanks to Bloodxclat)
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