#fungus
Shrouded encountering everyday alchemy
Wandering there where the mosses may talk to me
Under and over the ivy’s low canopy
Making my way in pursuit of some sanity
Sunlight is thwarted on slopes leading north as I
Silently savor the shadows that multiply
Junipers stretch between neighbors deciduous
Pine trees lie prostrate with limbs discontiguous
Here in the graveyard where logs become mortified
All forms of fungus will work up their appetite
Turning cadavers of trees into sustenance
Learning that death is a new source of succulence
Labyrinths circle and twist like a tentacle
Cloister-like pacing, profound-ecumenical
Joyfully chirping like children on helium
Life everlasting, give thanks to mycelium
Apr 8, 2025
Apr 8, 2025 at 5:03 PM UTC
I was very pleased to find
A fungus that sometimes (not always)
May contain algae
And so may be described
As partially lichenised
So when I can't make up my mind
I am just evolving me
I'm not divided
Undecided
Only naturalised
May 16, 2019
May 16, 2019 at 6:39 PM UTC
I seem to lean
into my shadows, failures and faults.
That slope too natural
and my downward leaning too easy.
What darkness have I learned?
What sullen seed has
merged into the deeper passages
to transform
into thorns?
Is it my repeated stumblings
or the sin of another
inflicted early
but now forgotten?
Maybe it’s so terrible
my mind has stashed it way way down
now a fungus still alive in the dark?
I feel too at home
dwelling in that cave
and I am in need,
I am sorely in need
of light,
enough lasting exposure
to **** the blight
scorch the itch
and set me leaning
into an upward pitch
to thwart the dark
proclivities.
Apr 6, 2019
Apr 6, 2019 at 12:32 PM UTC
have i grown this
fungus heart
myself?
have i
reconstructed myself
to survive in the conditions
i’ve created?
sloth
is the sin i brew
neglect
is the symptom
how do i solve this
when avoiding is
what comes natural
the virus grows too much
when i stay too still
so i keep moving
infecting all yet
trying to escape
this fate
as if running
stops the wound
from bleeding
but still
it is not as if
staying still makes
anything more
then an ecosystem
of self-destruct
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 9:53 PM UTC
You're like a fungus
Growing colors among us.
As happy as you look,
I can read you, an open book.
From your flowing silk cap,
To your teeth with slight gap.
A smile to hide sinister desire,
Face ice cold, soul a pyre.
Tasting your intriguing trap
Leads only to a sour dirt nap.
Left feeling alone and dead,
Wondering where is your head.
For who in their right mind
Could be so evil as to **** mine.
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 10:23 PM UTC
The ugliest woman that ever was born
was called Margery Pilkington-Brown.
If a monkey was born half as ugly as that
they would certainly have it put down.
Her head was as bald as a billiard ball,
yet the hair on her chin was quite long.
For a girl to be cursed with a whiskery beard
was, in anyone’s thinking, quite wrong
Mrs Pilkington cried, “Nurse, please take it away.
It’s a miniature monster from hell.”
“Put a bag on its head,” said the nurse, with a wave,
“If you need a supply, ring the bell.”
So Mrs P stayed for a month and a day
‘Till they told her, quite firmly, to go.
The nurse sympathised with a rolling of eyes
as she packaged the Lady-Shave Pro.
“Oh, what a disgrace when they look at her face
and they see she’s a hideous brute?”
“We’ll give you a bag with a hole in the top.
You can hide her away in the boot.”
So Mrs P left with a feeling of dread
planning what she could do with the sprog.
She drove to a wood at the edge of the park
and left Margery under a log.
“That’s a terrible thing that you’re doing,” he growled.
Mrs P jumped a mile or two.
The Park-Keeper peered at the face in the bag.
“Can’t you find it a home at the zoo?”
Downhearted, she took little Margery home
to a cupboard, until it was night.
She couldn’t risk anyone catching a glance
of poor Margery’s face in the light.
When Mr P saw his new daughter he scowled,
“God Almighty, my dear, what is that?
Has it crawled from a stone in the corner of hell,
or been dragged from a hole by the cat?”
“It’s our baby, dear heart,” cried a hurt Mrs P,
in a trice, feeling rather endeared.
“She may not be nice, but she’s our flesh and blood
with my feet and your belly and beard.”
“Well, yes, I suppose with her seventeen toes
and a nose that could open a tin,
she is rather unique in a curious way
and we’re blessed that she isn’t a twin.
She’s ours, as you say. We can’t give her away
So she’ll stay as a Pilkington – Brown.
We’ll give her a shave and a hat with a brim
And avoid going into the town.”
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 4:47 PM UTC
Grow on me with your bright colours, such pretty décor.
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 5:07 AM UTC