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03/12/2020
Floyd
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Floyd
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A temple for spiritual beings
In the loud glow of the blazing cold
i stare at billowing clouds of ice-green smoke, streaming backwards into a magical myrrh, strangely drawn in by the knotty branches that twist and turn like hundreds of hands in all directions of the vast desert. In the rumbling thunderstorm, blinded by lightning flashes of bitter-green citrus peel, the highly flickering bitter-sweet sage, in the cloudy mist of a firework of dark-sand cinnamon leaves, I pause admiring the tree as it spicily warms the frosty clouds, rooted in the earthy smoke of yellow-brown galbanum. Like the beginning of a happy frenzy, the scent of the smoke hits me in my stomach and sends me on a
Ride on the incense stick
into transfigured memories, washed-out time, matted shaggies full of curd soap, knotted by a girl who smells like Nag Champa. I see them dancing in sandalwood, in flowing colours of sweet flowers, bursting into vanilla resins, not moving on for many hours. I ride the smoke through walls of warm Washburn guitars, which in shimmering feedback, far out in the room, leave wonderfully soft waves in the hypnotic reverb. Sometimes I think that the scent of forest floor can be seen in it, only to immediately hide again in the slowly approaching veil of mist of warm incense.
Tobacco Tantra
When I notice that my incense is riding on the soft waves in the hall, only fine threads are pulling towards me, I find myself under a light brown shimmering roof made of spicy tobacco leaf, sweating little golden pearls of medically sweet benzoes. Quietly meandering mantras on a harmonium made of tonka, the evening amber veins shimmer like honey into the tobacco awning, even after eleven hours still, soft as the distant threads of smoke.
**
A temple for spiritual beings, full of bright images, shimmering colours, ritual smoke and buzzing sitar. A fragrance which, because of its bulky cool top note and the smoky hippieesque heart of sandalwood, sweet blossoms and resins, would not open itself to me at first attempt, but whose echo never let go of me and which, months later and enriched by many scent experiences, was able to convince me absolutely.
(With thanks to Mermaid and Can777)
i stare at billowing clouds of ice-green smoke, streaming backwards into a magical myrrh, strangely drawn in by the knotty branches that twist and turn like hundreds of hands in all directions of the vast desert. In the rumbling thunderstorm, blinded by lightning flashes of bitter-green citrus peel, the highly flickering bitter-sweet sage, in the cloudy mist of a firework of dark-sand cinnamon leaves, I pause admiring the tree as it spicily warms the frosty clouds, rooted in the earthy smoke of yellow-brown galbanum. Like the beginning of a happy frenzy, the scent of the smoke hits me in my stomach and sends me on a
Ride on the incense stick
into transfigured memories, washed-out time, matted shaggies full of curd soap, knotted by a girl who smells like Nag Champa. I see them dancing in sandalwood, in flowing colours of sweet flowers, bursting into vanilla resins, not moving on for many hours. I ride the smoke through walls of warm Washburn guitars, which in shimmering feedback, far out in the room, leave wonderfully soft waves in the hypnotic reverb. Sometimes I think that the scent of forest floor can be seen in it, only to immediately hide again in the slowly approaching veil of mist of warm incense.
Tobacco Tantra
When I notice that my incense is riding on the soft waves in the hall, only fine threads are pulling towards me, I find myself under a light brown shimmering roof made of spicy tobacco leaf, sweating little golden pearls of medically sweet benzoes. Quietly meandering mantras on a harmonium made of tonka, the evening amber veins shimmer like honey into the tobacco awning, even after eleven hours still, soft as the distant threads of smoke.
**
A temple for spiritual beings, full of bright images, shimmering colours, ritual smoke and buzzing sitar. A fragrance which, because of its bulky cool top note and the smoky hippieesque heart of sandalwood, sweet blossoms and resins, would not open itself to me at first attempt, but whose echo never let go of me and which, months later and enriched by many scent experiences, was able to convince me absolutely.
(With thanks to Mermaid and Can777)
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Frankcrummit
Saradonin
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