"mucus" poems
I'm suffocating.
But I don't need your help,
I can handle my throat closing,
no don't call 911,
there's no reason to.
I'm choking.
But I don't need your help,
I can handle the mucus that blocks my throat,
I can spit it up just fine,
so just keep on walking.
I'm coughing.
But I don't need your help,
I can handle myself doubled over in pain,
with my chest hurting as I try to sit up straight,
so just ignore me hacking up a lung.
I'm breathing.
But I don't need your help,
I can handle hyperventilation without my inhaler,
I don't have to breathe properly to live,
so thanks for just leaving me on the floor.
I'm dying.
But I don't need your help,
it's not like I have no energy to get my inhaler,
you can totally just run out of the room panicking,
it's not like i'm scared too or anything.
I'm angry.
And for some reason,
you can't figure out why.
So leave me alone.
I'm fine now.
I can handle myself.
I don't need your help.
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 4:24 PM UTC
Fought
One, Twenty-two skidoo.
Cantankerous mad filamous
She,
That of her,
Me.
Piñata, stretched balloon
Over my big fleshy
******
Tea and cakes,
Painted my nails
Painted my lips
Like candy.
Gold trinkets,
Pour like mercury out of my ear.
Ouch! I cried
My feet in hot sandy
Dreams.
Flying peacocks tickle
My *****
Oranges roll on chalk board tables
Over stale rye bread.
***** dribbles out like mucus
And a runny nose.
Toilet paper and rusty water.
********** on you.
Stocking lover.
Fetish cover.
Woman pusher.
Mellifluous ****
Look at my skin.
Pink, beige, peach, red
Porous, greasy, bacteria ridden hide.
**** me like seppuku,
Smother, suffocate me with
Red jelly jam.
Lubricate your finger with black
Cancerous ash.
Stick it in my naval,
Unravel my umbilical cord
Like so many filaments of my heart.
Tear your flesh
You auto *********
Rip your liver
And force feed it
Corn and maize
Hay and grass
Emory my nails against
Red barn walls
Until bare skin fundamentals
Kisses with salty lips
Inflame my ravishing
Pig stomach.
Kick my shin you
Everything,
Wake up you stupid
*****
Void can be blue skies,
Oceans call for suicide.
Kiss me with delight,
Raspberries tattooed
In my *****
Strawberry cream
Vanilla, milk,
Ponderous infinity,
Cotton, dough
Honey and sage.
Caustic gastric
You and not me.
Feel my legs,
Touch my thighs,
Lick my lips,
Give me anything
Not direct.
Tie me up in complexities.
**** my head up.
Put me in a dream,
Make me happy.
Blair Butterfield 2004
Jan 11, 2010
Jan 11, 2010 at 7:09 AM UTC
I want cheesey garlic bread!
alas, it's all that's in my head-
and if lactose I could tolerate,
this might not be such a debate.
though I'm sure my body could conform,
but it's taken this long to reform!
from the **** and mucus that is dairy,
that will surely turn your knuckles hairy.
I'll eat a piece of gluten toast,
for it only makes my tummy bloat,
but from cheese I must stay far away,
unless I want my **** to spray.
it's a sign, I think, that my body rejects
such a harmful product, my body protects
but god ****** I want garlic bread,
the cheesey kind, it's in my head...
Dec 11, 2012
Dec 11, 2012 at 1:30 AM UTC
I saw a gigantic tree.
Uprooted and on its side.
The great roots forming a mane for the snarling ringed face on the stump.
But the fallen beast is taken, it’s husk a Home.
A vibrancy of weevils, ladybugs, frog hoppers, Cockchaffers that’s skittering, scattered like a smashed ant farm.
Around its base were prehistoric ferns,
Curled and scaled like sand lizards’ tales.
Reminiscing the demise of the tyrannosaur.
When dust clouds darkened the sun which warmed their claws.
The skittering skinks, slow worms and other small lizards, who need far less to survive, then feasted upon the monsters’ flesh and found a home in its bone structured palace.
As whale sinks,
Distorted into a globster of its former self,
It hits the sea bed hard in oil-Black darkness.
The hagfish burrow, starved for millennia.
Brutally tearing at the befallen banquet.
Mouths used to scraps choking on steak.
Getting their guts knitted as they squirm over each other to grasp some sashimi.
Dripping saliva as if we’re sweat in the ruckus.
Yeti crab pinch, as do isopods
But get only mucus insulting their jaws.
And they thought they helped to cut up the portions.
Soon all that is left is a skeleton.
Hanging in a museum for future generations to see.
Once again, dust gathers, from bombed out sand.
Erupting in the air as giants hit the ground.
We may soon again see darkness fall.
As the rayiys is skinned.
But no tears are shed.
We all cheer none the less.
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 6:07 AM UTC
music becomes mucus, leftover remnants
of bacterial infections that refuse to vacate
my brain no matter how many decongestants
i consume, those sound waves reverberate back
and forth and back and forth within my thick
*** skull and i am driven mad by memories
how to cut tender wires intricately woven into
the most simple mass of a mess you will ever see
i find myself muttering solutions in my sleep and
when i reach conclusions i'm already half awake
pen in hand, paper on chest, but ahh, it's gone, it's gone
my dream world holds more clarity than my walking
daze and i can only find the words for poetry, my
tongue and throat are revolting, refusing to take part
in walks down memory lane, fingers soon to follow suit
Apr 2, 2013
Apr 2, 2013 at 9:27 PM UTC
skin
a sheen of sweat
cries ring out
sheets
all tangled agony
***** foetid air
contract
cryout
subside
a birthing
no pink and downy babe is this
a mucus clot
a jellied mass
a river of blood and tears
a termination
of what wasn't quite
a tractor passes feeding out
calves for the slaughter
the sun shines
birds sing
all oblivious of anything
a death and life goes on
Feb 4, 2013
Feb 4, 2013 at 1:22 AM UTC
imagine a calloused doubt.
cracked, chipped, clicking
like warped wooden floorboards.
soft from overuse
but still overrides willpower
in one palpitating breath.
grimy yet illusive
like your teeth after a day’s work,
collecting gunk that sidles up
to calcium companions,
crunching down on things
that become
so bland in the end.
doubt is offbeat,
monstrous footsteps hidden deep
off beaten paths,
its thudding is clammy and hurried,
aligned to the discordant jazz of
your alarmed body.
it tastes like
coppery heartbeats,
rising bile,
salt and mucus in the back of your throat.
it is a truly uncomfortable thing.
it stacks sweetly like buttercream pancakes
but crumbles you
with such a sour taste on your tongue.
imagine an agony that loves you.
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 7:09 PM UTC
On the sidewalk standing in the rain
the old man is a wounded dove.
Longish white hair: wet feathers
grounded in a storm. The rain is heavy
and repeats itself, like buckets of water
thrown out of windows.
The old man stands there
holding a memory or a wish.
Under the streetlight
his wet hair glistens like tinfoil.
The downpour is a creature
that’s eating him up.
Darkness projects
from a deserted apartment building.
The ground floor windows and doors
are boarded, nailed shut.
It appears dead, like an old disease,
or stripped, like a despoiled tomb.
Its bricks cracked and crumbled,
wooden casings dry rotted and helpless.
Painted in bold red
across the boarded front entrance,
a graffiti-message: Girls Rule.
Looking back at the old man,
he stands the way a king stands alone
when doubting himself.
Dark crawls around him. The old man stares
at the building. He is motionless,
in memory. Rain gallops over him.
Inside the warmth of a café,
my steaming coffee. Outside, the streets
are laundered clean of everyone
except for the old man who stares
at the apartment building. Time has grown
over his face and body, has grown
over the broken down building.
Now the rain is as heavy as mucus
and with his tiny body
the old man shuffles away into the dark
and gradually disappears
like a casket being covered with earth.
_______________________________________
from my sixth book-length manuscript
©dah / dahlusion 2014 / 2015
all rights reserved
"In Streetlight, His Wet Hair" was first published in
'Switch (the difference) Anthology'
from 'Kind Of A Hurricane Press'
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 2:53 PM UTC
*Combat....
though morbid in nature, there is a sense of beauty....
for example -
the bullet and it's chamber
the slickness of steel, and the power of the trigger
which together correlates the symphony of motion
from the time the trigger is pulled, to the
daunting escape of a bullet, and then finally to the *********** of it's victim.....
Quite morbid... yet hauntingly beautiful.....
Then come's the bullets quintessential cohorts
The Chemical and The Armored Car (a Tank)
The brutal barrage of steel cartage
crashing into unstable masonry
then the soothing smog of golden mustard gas...
The echoed shrieks, the violent shakes,
the ****** eyes and mucus filled noses
whose violent episodes finally conclude
when the eyes of death stare back at them...
Quite morbid.... yet hauntingly beautiful....
The finally... how can we forget the noble foot soldier?
his footsteps, silent to the earth....
out of the hysteria and chaos
two men, two weapons, and a whirlwind of emotion
nationalistic pride, paranoid fear, and scattered tranquility...
A sign, as is to say....
"I don't want to fight, but I have to..."
Which all correlates in the ****** of the bayonet
a twinkle of blood, and then finally the gentle weeps...
Quite morbid.... yet hauntingly beautiful....*
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 9:36 PM UTC
He seeks truth in places of no good.
He flies high in places where others stood
Still he cries tears of perpetual sense.
A chameleon
his outer vesture cloaks his identity.
Unyielding
He plants his foot in the dirt.
Tangled vines tie his toes
contrasting his poetic prose.
Left dangling in the temptress spider lily's web
the noose tightens
as the old boy sings.
A fist with two thumbs
he raises like a martian.
Strangers illegibly write him
off.
A Jekyllish laugh
empties the mucus from his lungs.
Eons of inhaling senseless knowledge
he finds a second breathe to speak.
Words slice the web of lies
spinning silk into impenetrable pride.
Raw and uncut
his diction polishes diamonds
before were only rust.
He wakens every morning
Anew defiant face.
Contradicting himself
a joke
he cackles everyday.
The children who say he's changed
are correct.
But the chameleon found his true colors
somewhere between the lines
of white and black.
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 11:43 AM UTC
My eyes
are bags of mucus hanging by cellophane membranes
to my skull which is now structured like a wet sponge.
My tummy protrudes out from the rest of my abdomen,
a gelatinous layer hiding away a chiseled core
which may be deteriorating into oblivion at this moment.
The skin rests and hangs a little over the top of my leather belt
which somehow manages to fit three loops in from the first hole.
My neck hangs heavy like the ears of a sad elephant.
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 12:55 PM UTC
Sinuses, you have won today,
but the night shall be mine,
for down my throat
I have poured the elixir of wonder
and shoved the grenade
of mucus dismemberment
and I have aerated my nostrils
with the flow of nase.
I may be pass through the night unknowingly,
but at least I know that you will not hinder me any longer.
No more will my brain try to escape its confounds,
no more shall my glasses feel like they are crushing my nose as a grape.
I shall sleep as you are conquered.
Yes, you may have won the day,
but I, I will have the night.
Jan 18, 2012
Jan 18, 2012 at 2:35 AM UTC
I am an umbrella, a rain jacket,
For the Cinderella, a stored away packet,
Till the day the skies sputter rain.
I am a tool box, a first aid kit lain
In a dark, webs-infested dusty corner,
Touching no light; seeing no cleaner.
The kitchen accident and toys’ breakdown
Are such welcome picnics to the town.
Could have been a willow, nor am I a pillow
To cry on in times of immense pains in kilo
And to hug out of a heart exploding joy.
But I am a bomb-shelter, a floating life buoy,
A tower of refuge in times of need;
A furrow-deserted land planted no seed,
Awaiting to be useful again in season,
Not Jesus, but bearing a crystal reason
To be also a rock in that weary land.
I am a handkerchief in a man’s hand;
Ironically stuffed useless in the back pocket,
To blow away flu mucus off the nosy socket,
Or wipe the intermittently rare solitary tears
That graces the dry eyes from heartbreak fears.
I am not a flowerbed; I am a mango tree;
Having no admirers save the monkeys, free
To shelter, mate, play and make all merry,
Spring has come with flowers and I draw very
Much attention; the promise of fruits abundance,
Needed, loved, and embraced in a scarce annual chance.
I am an audience for the sad breaking news;
The princess’s Eulogizer in dilemma to possible views,
I am a lawnmower in her abandoned backyard,
A joker of little importance in her game play card.
I am a muzzled ox treading the corn;
A mockery of treasure, glittering scorn,
In her darkest times, the cherished glow-worm;
An apologetic shelter in the times of storm.
Feb 13, 2012
Feb 13, 2012 at 2:59 AM UTC
A Reading from the Book of Puppets
**Her
Ventriloquist venom is never ending
engineering every word I should say**
Pity me as her words drip down from my mouth
Look to me... my paralyzing awkwardness admonishes all attempts at paucity
the ***** of vernacular continues
Manifest as a million babble born words
look at her and you’ll know why
***Would you sell your soul
if you spoke staccato and she smiled sadistic?***
And when she’s not there
***I lay prostrate on the railroad tracks
of her impending presence***
restrained
and retrained in the tailisman rope of your arrival
Look there now, a Tongue tied in knots, a mind firing (shots)
I am reduced
she is labyrinthine, in both style, and substance,
a sapiosexual maze, a soothing syrup mixed with
biter bile
why then does
nothing feel better than to see her smile
Why validate her pleasure
with my defeats?
Stuck and ****** into a singular melodious smile, the tune of which I can’t help but dance to
Why? Because at the end of the day
your eyes jut out
candelabras in defiance the night
notifying the world
of all you want but have yet to receive
a shallow existence .... a marked man... a million morbid motifs
made of mucus and stuttered star beams
You are that rare being, a glimpse at myself both wretched and alluring
A soul already tainted::: still I seek to embrue, the boredom
I am voiceless
in this decaffinated life
a tendril of hair
a woman domestic
a shadowland chaser
a light that’s poetic
The addictive tape worm of my soul
cdh
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 1:15 AM UTC
I can hear the sea bed,
I sometimes think I can hear whales and eels,
And pain escaping my body,
I feel so much all the time,
I sometimes think you feel very little and watching you succeed makes me feel worse and isn't that awful?
Eels are covered with a slimy mucus that allows them to slither around without getting scratched,
I keep dropping myself into water,
For a second of relief,
Healing isn't linear,
And did you know eels can swim backwards and forwards.
Nov 27, 2021
Nov 27, 2021 at 4:38 AM UTC
There was a snail (named Dale)
with a very long tail
who ventured off into the world.
He said to himself
(Dale the snail)
I'd love to meet a bootiful goil.
So in a flash from space,
with mucus running down her face,
came an alien creature called Joan,
She saw a silver line
(it was a snail trail)
and followed it to see where it goes.
And far in ...the distance
she saw in an instance
at the end of the snail trail sparkling in the sun-
A slimy and sweet
creature she'd love to meet
with a shell on his back for a home.
She said:"I do declare,
you look dashing and fair"
as bubbles oozed from her eyes.
Dale just blushed,
as his face lit up,
and said: "aw you're just saying that you sassy young blob of an alien gawjus sweet thing with no hair :)"
She looked at this tiny dream of a slobber,
he was in awe at her globber.
But their hearts sank at their difference in size.
She was glandular large
like a bright yellow barge
and he was as small as a splarge.
A stick insect saw -
the tragedy of it all
and came up with a very cunning plan.
He knew a wizard once
who ate snails for lunch,
they could trick him to changing her small...
As he told them the tale,
their faces went pale
but their love was too strong for the fear.
So they slithered and shlozzered
to Joan's flying saucer
to find the castle of Wizzy the ****
The wizard was waiting
with his eyes full of hating
and a knife and a fork in each hand.
There was garlic and salt
that he took from his vault
and he drooled on his beard as he sang:
"Alien Shpeegle
with shnails in shmeegle,
a delightful shurprishe for a man!
Groggy my groach
with shome shlime on my toasht"
and he pranced and danced with his band.
The spacecraft landed,
unexpectant of ambush,
the couple wanderd on in.
Wizzy swung from a rafter
and trapped Dale in a corner,
and said: "My you'll go well with my Shtew!"
Joan got mad
and rolled on to her lad
and ****** the wizard into her goo.
She suddenly felt all tingly
as she turned into a twinky,
there was nothing more she could do.
The Wizard escaped
and poor Dale met his fate,
and was smeared on the twinky sliced in two.
Wizzy gobbled them up
with some glee in his cup,
and then succumbed to food poisoning goo.
So it seemed that it ended
on that dark cold September,
for the lovers who's loving was doomed...
But on a planet far away
at the early break of day
two souls bubbled in primordial stew.
An amoeba named Dale
and an amoeba named Joan
were floating in bubbles of gas,
So deep the attraction
-the magnetized action,
they could now be together at last.
Dec 11, 2010
Dec 11, 2010 at 1:38 AM UTC
*Left Mucus trail
So she could be found by Love
when she moved on*
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 4:35 AM UTC
Spitting up the mucus lining
the back of my throat
binding my gag reflex
to every breath.
I hope I don't choke.
Stomach lining
forcing it's way up
and out my throat.
Sliding it's way back down
into my lungs.
Coughing and burning
my air ways. The pain is profound.
It looked like cold bbq sauce at first
but as the forced
contractions became less dispersed
Every thing became more clear.
Whiskey had put me here...
It didn't hold you down and make you drink it.
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 12:42 PM UTC
*Combat....
though morbid in nature, there is a sense of beauty....
for example -
the bullet and it's chamber
the slickness of steel, and the power of the trigger
which together correlates the symphony of motion
from the time the trigger is pulled, to the
daunting escape of a bullet, and then finally to the *********** of it's victim.....
Quite morbid... yet hauntingly beautiful.....
Then come's the bullets quintessential cohorts
The Chemical and The Armored Car (a Tank)
The brutal barrage of steel cartage
crashing into unstable masonry
then the soothing smog of golden mustard gas...
The echoed shrieks, the violent shakes,
the ****** eyes and mucus filled noses
whose violent episodes finally conclude
when the eyes of death stare back at them...
Quite morbid.... yet hauntingly beautiful....
The finally... how can we forget the noble foot soldier?
his footsteps, silent to the earth....
out of the hysteria and chaos
two men, two weapons, and a whirlwind of emotion
nationalistic pride, paranoid fear, and scattered tranquility...
A sign, as is to say....
"I don't want to fight, but I have to..."
Which all correlates in the ****** of the bayonet
a twinkle of blood, and then finally the gentle weeps...
Quite morbid.... yet hauntingly beautiful....*
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 3:30 PM UTC
Just what do we know about
Ward Churchill?
That radical agitator,
That Colorado college professor
Most famous for calling
Twin Tower 9/11 dead technocrats
Little Eichmanns.
Noteworthy is the fact that
The United States Supreme Court
Denied certiorari,
Passed on hearing his claim of
Unlawful discharge.
Unlawful discharge?
Sounds felonious and vile:
Like pus laced with *****
A criminal secretion, like mucus
Smuggled past Customs:
Vaginal contraband.
Sorry, Ward.
We just don’t give a ****
Your fake Indian pedigree,
Your bogus Vietnam fairytales,
Your phony combat record,
Your forward ops recon
Way out in ******* Cambodia,
Fall flat like Buffalo turds.
You’ve been slick, Ward.
Hired originally to fill
Some gratuitous affirmative action quota,
Denied tenure in two legitimate departments,
You create some ******** academic discipline
For campus freaks & geeks.
Self-appointed Department Chairman,
A fraudulent college professor from the start,
Once tenured, a courageous warrior for free speech.
Describing Native American history as genocide.
Summing up American history as Holocaust denial.
Professor Churchill was all of these things,
And less.
But using the Holocaust metaphor
To anchor one’s fakakta politics?
That was the proverbial last straw,
The camel buster, if you will.
Especially since most of the
Stockbrokers & market analysts
Crushed in the rubble were Jewish.
Hava Nagila, Babaloo!
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 9:45 PM UTC
Perhaps it was too soon
but time will tell me that
it was the right time when
it got loose out of my pocket.
The agony of the lost ink pen
given to me by my grandfather
is not that it had a thick nib
that glided though sheets
of stories, gave track
to trains of thoughts.
The agony is that, I wanted
the pen to be the living proof
in his posterity, or mine
that he was a good man, and
only grabbed by the ills of habits
and inability to control one's mind
did he speak bad with others.
I had a hard time, gulping the loss
like the hardened blob of mucus
too difficult to shove down the throat
but too difficult to push it out.
But then I had no other option,
I could sulk in the moment for long,
or I could imagine that these poems,
are what would show him a good man,
despite his odds of the world against.
I'm the ink and the ink pen
and not what got lost.
For this body too is borrowed,
expenses not more than
what bought the ink pen.
Of course grandfather would
probably get angry if told.
So the agony of the lost ink pen
is that it got lost, but also found
by someone. May the person
find good use of it.
Jul 25, 2017
Jul 25, 2017 at 11:29 AM UTC
I get my information
from the dirt…
While running my hands
through the fertile earths…
My mucus membranes
collect the biome beneath..
ancient mycelium filaments
feed my primal needs!
Aug 4, 2021
Aug 4, 2021 at 2:47 PM UTC
Sweet and charming she may be,
What you see is not meant to be.
Lovely nymph born with the gift of gab,
Emotional vampire fills the gap.
Manipulative mind behind those lovely eyes,
Entrenching her prey in her web of lies.
Loving her man as deeply as illusion permits,
Keeping her man as lonely as a hermit.
Come the day the illusion dies,
Her man's love for her revitalise.
Black Widow continued to act,
Lest her man violently react.
Tears and mucus drenched her face,
She wiped it off without a trace.
Cold and heartless are her traits,
For she reigns supreme in the straits.
Jun 28, 2012
Jun 28, 2012 at 11:24 AM UTC
A shadow holds me in his grip and seeks the bones that he must find. The grazes of ghostly fingers on myself remind me of my ending youth and the ticking time that is left.
I’ve disappeared into the morning fog as the people I love have begun to stare straight through me They strain to look at me although I vanish upon them catching a small glimpse- I am acid to the cornea causing burning blindness and hatred.
These bones are brittle and the wind has picked up, the sky is darkening as if to rain and the rainbow day is done. However, the rainbow days were spent as a child whisked to the side to be plucked like a fruit all of the brightness and sweets taken, leaving me dull, laughter drops from me like a stone.
I attempt to concentrate on the slivers of light peering through the bars of my own psychological prison cell, but such magnification did not set my heart on afire.
Rain droplets taste my skin, unraveling at the ripples as 3 lightning bolts fork through the houses, 7 claps of thunder, 12 bursts of laughter in the house next door and a thousand tears rolling down my cheeks. I suddenly realize that my head was severed from my body days ago while lying sleepless on the worn couch.
Each season the garden dies, i die with each, until i die no more- although his death and mine were not the same, we still rot underneath the dirt in worms and earth as the city streets blacken and decompose.
The tears cling to the sleeve of my jacket mucus separating with a sticky pull and the dolls and smiles of my life are gone replaced by the headache and the row of cuts on my thighs.
Dec 22, 2018
Dec 22, 2018 at 3:03 PM UTC