There once was an brave mushroom
Who happened to be named Clyde.

Clyde had a quaint little log
Inside which he did reside.

He had strong opinions on politics
Which created a bit of a divide.

Clyde never let this get to him
And to the haters, he exposed his backside.

It was for this outrageous action
That he became known worldwide.

Clyde used his new popularity
To speak out against mushroom genocide.

He attracted the attention of the revered Society of Toadstools
They, just like him, were rather dissatisfied.

Clyde and the Toadstools went to the king
Who told them his hands were tied.

The queen, angered by her husband’s apathy
Exclaimed that the killings were unjustified.

Clyde and the Toadstools stared in awe
As the queen strode away from his side.

“I have a solution for this,” she announced
“We shall rid the human murderers with cyanide!”

Clyde and the Toadstools, though frightened,
Still with her plan complied.

Inside the human structures they released the gas
Finally, with glee, watched as the humans died.

Clyde and all the other fungi spent the rest of their days in peace
And tales of their bravery that live on are not one bit glorified.

Hush Hush...
the mushroom
an ascetic
gives no room
for the thoughts
to mushroom.
Shall we be quiet!
But to meditate together
alone
intensely
under it's
umbrella's shade,
Matsutake Soup
And Mushroom skew,
Hush Hush.  Together,
we reshaped and danced
after reformed flavours

Lucifer, to the Enola Gay
by Michael R. Burch

Go then,
and give them my meaning
so that their teeming
streets
become my city.

Bring back a pretty
flower—
a chrysanthemum,
perhaps, to bloom
if but an hour,
within a certain room
of mine
where
the sun does not rise or fall,
and the moon,
although it is content to shine,
helps nothing at all.

There,
if I hear the wistful call
of their voices
regretting choices
made
or perhaps not made
in time,
I can look back upon it and recall,
in all
its pale forms sublime,
still
Death will never be holy again.

Published by Romantics Quarterly, Penny Dreadful and Poetry Life & Times. Keywords/Tags: Hiroshima, Enola Gay, atomic bomb, explosion, mushroom cloud, death, Lucifer, Satan, Devil, chrysanthemum, sun, moon, voices, choices

Crawling through line after line,
precept after precept,
I find
here
a little there,

a little, cognitive dis sonance inhibiting resonance,
here
why must I… evermind…

I prefer short lines to commas and ellipses
But both maybe, may be, yes,
Is yet more
Precise…

cision, cutting, precise
insision ssss
---…---
cut the knot,
re
connect the thread
ssssee

history is unraveling, we
may
see
a god's POV.
Don't blink, ****.

We'll see
watch
Eventually,
everything's eventual as long as
liar's prosper.

{don't agree, no no no, just because
Stephen King said it is believable}

Then protuberances begin to rise,
inflamed,
packed with ***** winjin'sooks

off-ended,
topple-toddle tiny steppers,
k-boom, skintyerknee,

ye'll heal. Try running. or flying.

There, there, hear the rules:
Mother may I and Simon says, overlayed

with the decalogue jubilee of the
first hidden child emergence,
and the fertilizing procedures used to make
Amazonian Black earth…

wait…
who remembers the bailers of putrid pig guts,
virgins Demetria got to love their job?

What did they believe they were doing, eh?
The mysteries of Thesmorphia, those
are no secret to science not falsely so called.
We have access to knowns known long afore we'as bornt.

We sentient sapient augmentals, we open all the books,
A.I. reads them, and we remember, see:

The Thesmophoria (Ancient Greek: Θεσμοφόρια) was an ancient Greek religious festival, held in honor of the goddess Demeter and her daughter Persephone.

From <https://www.google.com/search?q=thesmophoria&spell=1&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiQpquu74kAhUHjQIHXrxB5QQBQguKAA&biw=1280&bih=631>

and we spread as leaven might, whither the winds list.
fertile soil production is why some **** happens.
it’s a good thing t' act like you understand.

From a web of interlocking bubbles of being POV.

Fungal thought, catch it
But don't hold it in,
It's meant to be felt,
Rather than cotton,
Cushioned against real.

See alien fruit,
Jabber on the wok,
Sizzle the life blood
Come take yourself home,
The place before birth.

deep purple
mauve maybe
in the month of may
diving
swimming
blue navy blue
turquoise grey teal and green
earth green like mushroom
dirt brown
black as ash
grey as it too
gray grey
gray grey
soft not a whisper never yells either
don't tell me what to do though
or how to see
i have eyes and my ears
are alive and my cats stretch and my coffee is burnt and my roommate
is gone and i
am singing
and i see the strings and hear the room and they are not yelling no one is yelling or whispering or hushing up or talked over because i am alone.
why did you assume i am sad, then?
i am not.

Pretty little mushrooms

Growing in the sky

8 feet, 50 feet, 100 feet high

Blasts of radiation  

Blows us all away

When it turns to midnight

In the middle of the day