He was known as the local Mycophagist
In the dales, the woods and the hills,
What happened was sad, for he wasn’t so bad
Just a tad underdone, Toby Gills,
They say that the cord was around his neck,
He was born with a carroty mop,
And a pale white head, he was almost dead
When the doctor had called out ‘Stop!’
They cut the cord and they let him breathe,
The damage was already done,
The blood had been stopped to his carroty top
So they said that he’d always be dumb.
But he found a niche where the fungi creeps
And went out collecting the spore,
In a year or two he knew more than you
And the college Professor next door.
He studied his mushrooms with loving intent,
He knew about hen of the woods,
He knew about bracket and shaggy manes, magic
And paddy straw, they were the goods;
He fostered his lobster and hedgehog and oyster
And coral fungi and stinkhorns,
But didn’t discern between fly agarics
And toadstools that grew in the lawn.
He grew his spore in a deep, dark cellar
And sold to the folk who came by,
And never would judge between Widow Weller
And the ordinary witches of Rye,
He’d sell death caps, and pigskin puffballs
Not thinking to question them why,
Or who would be eating his laughing Jim’s
And whether they knew they would die.
The air was thick and the air was damp
And he fell in the dark one day,
Scattering toadstools into the air
And their spores had floated away,
He breathed the spores right into his lungs
For he hadn’t been wearing a mask,
But sucked them in right over his tongue
And they came to his lungs, at last.
I happened to see him out in the street
He was finding it hard to breathe,
He could only take a couple of steps
Then sit on the kerb, to heave,
I tried to help but he waved me away
And his eyes were yellow and cruel,
Then I saw what he’d thrown up on the kerb
Some yellow and red toadstools.
The man was a walking toadstool spore
They were popping up out of his hair,
Pushing their way though his carroty top
In a bid to get to the air,
And his skin was blotched like a puffball, he
Looked up at me, and he cried,
As a giant toadstool grew from his throat
And he lay on his side, and died.
David Lewis Paget
seem to gorge the visuals,
alongside cumulus clouds that shadows the destination,
on scraped knees even the shoreline dissipates with the impervious vista,
at times the night air feels insecurely ballast,
how can we be said
to be truly safe?
when the vestige Cities
mourn with the tiresomeness of the beaten track.
sometimes i run my mouth
just to hear myself talk
sometimes i say things i don't mean
just to see if you were ever listening
and i promise you this
my mouth will be the death of me
awaken me with a kiss
the wicked witch put a spell on me
and if i do something bad
my mouth is sure to tell on me
because sometimes i can't feel
but i say something anyways
just to fill the air
just to let you know
and sometimes i get scared that if i don't talk
you'll forget me
so i'm sorry if any of the words i say
i have this horrid fear of being left
it's a silly fear
but it makes me feel rotten
so every once in a while
let me know that you care
because anxiety gets the best of me
and then it takes the rest of me
and that is when i feel
and it's terrible and you can't imagine
how hard it hits
but i can tell you that it hurts
but it's an easy fix.
This is my final goodbye to you. And I'm so sorry. I know I said that you would always have me. I know I promised that I would be waiting right here for you to come back to me. But outside, as the seasons passes countlessly, the air chilled me to the bone and the wind howled into my ears, shaking and beating my body into havoc. I'm not retreating; I'm moving forward.
Maybe I waited so long because I'm used to the abuse. It's all I have ever loved. And up till now, I believed it was all I deserved. I grew up never knowing love and so I ended up searching for it in all the wrong places. I'm afraid you're another misguided destination. But I don't really mean that. I guess. We were somewhat good for each other. If we hadn't met, neither of us would be in existence today. I still remember how you convinced me there is a reason to live on my 17th birthday. I was the one, despite your anger and will, that saved you from the damage you inflicted on yourself.
It's rather upsetting how clearly I can remember all of the good memories. How you were so truly in love with me before you even knew it. You treated me like the most beautiful and fascinating girl and for once in my life, I believed it. I really believed it. I miss it all. The nights that we stayed up, endlessly asking each other questions because we wanted to know every little detail. At 4 a.m. you apologized for keeping me up on a school night and I told you that I would much rather talk to you than sleep. And by your reaction, I knew you were not used to that and so tried from there on to make you feel as special as you truly are. Our first date, exploring downtown, you never let go of my hand. I had boyfriends before but...they never held my hand in public. And I thought that was the loveliest thing. And when you kissed me for the first time, or rather every time, every atom of my body electrified. The early mornings, under covers, you touched my skin so gently....But ever before we knew each other, when we just gazed at each other across campfires and crowded rooms, I knew I wasn't through with you. However, I'm afraid that time has arrived. I knew this time would eventually come, but nothing could have prepared me.
The happy moments may exist in distant memories, but this overwhelming pain, hatred, sadness, and desperation is constant proof of the reckless and apathetic wreckage you have inflicted. How you chose every single thing over me. Over us. Our relationship was such a joke. You will never love anything more than those damn chemicals in that fucking needle. I could never be close to you because that blonde cum covered bitch was between us from the start. And in the end, you acted as if this relationship was too much effort for you.
When you said goodbye, I knew it wasn't for the last time. We always find our way back to each other. But I have to close the door. I can't allow you to enter my life again. Although I love you to the ends of the earth, I have to start loving myself. No matter how difficult that may be. I'm sorry.
Te amo, mi novio.
Pretend that the stubborn tangles
in my hair
are knots designed
to bind you
so very close to me.
Pretend that the bruises
tattooed on me
are marks left on my skin
by the weight of your absence.
Pretend that my chapped lips
with skin slowly peeling
are dry from sending
yearning echoes into space
hoping you will hear.
Pretend that the air bubbles
on my nail polish
are braille letters
that only you can read
that spell out:
"hold my hand and never let go."
my heart is my front door
and she is the curious fly
I see her out of the corner of my eye
as she flies about
she explores me from top to bottom
and I don't mind having her around
she can stay as long as she wants
as long as she doesn't make a sound
it's nice having company in this house
I was alone for quite some time
took a vacation to find myself
I traveled through my mind
turning the ugly things into beautiful seashells
the salty air may dry my skin, but I love how it smells
I woke one morning
to the sound of buzzing
I grew to hate the sound
it seems lovely and sweet
I let the vibration rock me back to sleep
sitting in a rocking chair
I watch as she soars past me
following her with my eyes
she flies in patterns I've never seen
making me dizzy
the head rush becomes addicting
she flew out through my open door
the same way she came in
swift, and curious
she viewed the outside
the way she viewed me
nothing to be sure of
it's been months
I haven't seen her since
but I can still hear the buzzing
It gives me headaches
but I still leave my door open
even though I know she isn't coming
Christmas was the one day when the guns died away...
There were soldiers from both sides,
But we all spoke the same language on Christmas.
December 24th, 11:50 pm
10 precious minutes until Christmas.
I can hear gunshots BOOMING and BANGING on all sides around me...
The sky, even though it is supposed to be dark, is red with bloody gunsmoke.
Men from both sides are on the ground,
Merely bleeding to death.
I have been instructed to not help them.
They're just gooks after all...
They don't live, breathe, and bleed just like you and me.
December 24th, 11:59 pm
The guns are more heated than ever.
My adrenaline is racing.
The crisp, frigid air is kicking my ass right now.
The tears that I have shed are now frozen to my face.
My legs are burning,
But I cannot stop running.
December 25th, 12:00 am
Guns cease to fire...?
"Why have they stopped firing?"
I shout to my neighbor.
He just grins, like the little boy he truly is, and simply responds,
I cannot contain my joy.
All over the battlefield,
Men hoot and holler with joy and glee.
The guns and insults stop.
In their place,
Men sing praise to the God they often curse,
And remember Rudolph, Frosty, and the other childish characters who used to make them innocently smile.
December 25th, 12:10 am
Every man who hasn't fallen yet has found a place to rest their head for the night.
We temporarily become friends with our enemies.
My buddy pulls out a flask from his sack,
And he spreads a little "Christmas Cheer" around the trench.
December 25th, 12:00 pm
We take the time to sleep...
We take the time to quietly talk about our girls back home...
About the families that we've left behind...
About the food, activities, and places we miss most...
We make the most of every small, yet precious, moment that goes without a shot or kill.
December 26th, 12:01 am
We remember that we're supposed to kill each other,
So that's exactly what we do.
Christmas is the only time to be friends...
Any other day is a day to kill.
Christmas is a universal language.
Evidently everyone can understand it...
I guess it's just mutual that we take the time to NOT kill each other.
Oh, why can't everyday be like Christmas?
like monuments, we will soon become rust,
ponderous and proud, made royal
by the antiquity of air.
dust is dynastic. the silt that bore
the bones and viscera of fish
was not laid by mothers, yours or mine.
we’ll forge our complex ziggurats
from the irons in our several souls.
they’ll be as old, i think, as the hills
and vertebral faults of this planet.
If you’re not sorry, I’m not sorry
let’s get drunk
let’s get fucked up
let’s forget our names
let’s go swimming in the river
let’s freeze our asses off.
this world, this world, this world
it’s too big for us and we love
disappearing in it.
If you’re not sorry, I’m not sorry.
we’ll write a song using only those words.
we’ll sing it loud and out of tune around a campfire
and watch our friends kiss the wrong people.
I wanna die smiling.
I don’t care when, I just want
it to be doing something I love.
I want it to be with you.
But promise me you won’t be around when I get boring.
promise me we won’t even talk about it when
we have to go our separate ways.
one of us will wake up and we’ll just feel it.
we’ll just know.
that’s how I want this to go.
A song with only a chorus.
no bridge, no fade out.
just a steady tune that doesn't get tired.
I wanna know what the air smells like in Nevada.
I wanna see it all.
If you’re not sorry, I’m not sorry.
let’s stop talking.
keep this song on, it’s my favorite.
like the folds of
Its warmth is
The familiarity of
is hard to
So I snuggle
into its folds.
When I struggle
to get out,
to breathe a breath of
I am always
dragged back into
the sweet confines