on the exquisite stench of satisfaction

and being a sommelier of flatulence

Back when the refinery still burned, you’d smell it before you’d see it.

How could anyone live with this stench?

These were not my private thoughts. Each time we’d pass through there over four decades I would speak those words, my hackles up with olfactory offense. I must be some kind of spoiled brat, but I do not like stinky places. Actually, I adore stinky places.

But it’s gotta have a certain kind of stink.

The stink needs to be on a human scale.

Swamps, bogs, horse shit and rotting seaweed buzzing with maggots are fine.

My jacket stinky with sweat - I love it. I am a filthy animal. I joyously roll around indulging in the poetry of my own body odour.

I could be a sommelier of flatulence. I am an expert on the varied compositions and expressions of my own farts:

Now dear, I’m about to let one rip, I think you’ll quite enjoy this one. It’s a bold, full bodied crack-popper, heavy nose of sulphur, sharp - from yesterdays’s omelette with mellow undertones of juniper, sage and catnip.

My fa…