"spore" poems
V.B. Wigglesworth wakes at noon,
Washes, shaves and very soon
Is at the lab; he reads his mail,
Swings a tadpole by the tail,
Undoes his coat, removes his hat,
Dips a spider in a vat
Of alkaline, phones the press,
Tells them he is F.R.S.,
Subdivides six protocells,
Kills a rat by ringing bells,
Writes a treatise, edits two
Symposia on "Will man do?,"
Gives a lecture, audits three,
Has the ***** club in for tea,
Pensions off an ageing spore,
Cracks a test tube, takes some pure
Science and applies it, finds,
His hat, adjusts it, pulls the blinds,
Instructs the jellyfish to spawn,
And, by one o'clock, is gone.
8.5k
No poison as venomous
Nor insidious a rouge
No piercing an arrow
Can compare to love
A disease like no other
Like no virus or spore
It rides the breezes of Autumn
With the leaves as they fall
In the laughter of lovers
As they gaze into their eyes
Their company they cherish
As the world, it turns blank
Such subterfuge is legend
As warning you it does not
And in chains of steel unbreaking
Your heart will be wrought
Your walls will crumble
Your discipline, for naught
You crave their happiness
And then you are lost...
as it tears you asunder
and rips you apart from within
Oh, such a malady has no cure!
You can only give in...
When will you arrive my love?
Please, come to me
Cool this fever of passion
This fire that rages within
Swiftly my darling!
Life from my fingers it slips
I can´t bear to see them smiling...
In sadness I wallow in...
yet, maybe this is what I deserve
For turning my back on my heart
The pain, the agony, it feels...
like the cut of a thousand knives...
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 11:50 PM UTC
It was silk that handkerchief
that she kept in her slim red velvet sleeve
that windy night whist out riding
she did loose that hanky to the wind wild and free
Holding on to her mighty black beauty
she did let her chief fly with the wind
and as moonlight fell
it did land upon a still pond
A frog still breathing the breath of flies
dead in eyes did adorn himself
making the silk handkerchief his cloak
claiming all the kingdoms of the world
He claimed dark magic for his evil empire
bathed those so foolish to follow his lies
from spore to twenty ages past
he was their glory, for a thousand years to pass
Oh his sick blindness was his ignorance
making baby skinned lamp shades
as death by his hands came so easily
by suicide he'd die in a shallow cowards grave
The lady of the midnight rides
oh she did hear of his wicked deeds
so she made a black clothed thing
a dragonfly, with the heart of fire
It was sent to that time
oh to that dark age with jagged wings
it did put hate in a box
to save fit for another day
That silk handkerchief
oh did he know it's worth
pudding disdain is now the frog
and to our shame, so is this world
By Christos Andreas Kourtos aka NeonSolaris
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 8:05 PM UTC
Dis stasie was stil
en donker gelaat.
Die nag kwyn in lig
en die dag kry sy wraak.
Die spore le koud
verdwyn op die horison,
en ek wag vir 'n stoomtrein
wat nooit sal kom.
Karre jaag die lewe
in die stad duskant die spoor aan
en 'n sateliet voer ons inligting
vanuit sy ordinere wentelbaan,
maar ek verspeel my tyd
deur hier langs die spoor te staan.
My soeke vir liefde
was waar liefde ontbreek,
soos om te wag vir 'n stoomtrein
of om vir kos te smeek.
Ek soek nou vir liefde
op die verlate stasies
van die vandag se tyd
, maar al wat ek kry is 'n taxi
en die wereld lag my uit.
Ek wag vir my trein.
Ek wag vir jou.
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 7:36 PM UTC
the green and waxy confusion is your cape and covering
topaz wings strum and flutter,
branches snap
beast and bug
geranium and dogwood
woodear spore and wolfsbane
flower and firm hedge
all wear goosebumps:
the whole army of generation, the waft and release
ready to conceive, to love and make root
to spill and ****
daylight, moonlight
well-fed and hungry
west and further west
a brush against your thigh flattens you
climbs your spine like a curse
robes you in purpose
to be and be alone
there you are: croucher, scuttler,
position known only to yourself
subclade of womankind
treasure in your soul
(in purses and pouches;
taking in, taking in)
it is private here and musty
you own your hands, your knees,
the dirt under them both,
the roots beneath that,
everything on the wind and below the blue sky
everything dark, and everything light:
kingdom of your own discovery
shroud and mountain and cache of mystery.
A door far away slides open
an echo of busy house, busy bones on the air.
Something in the oven.
Something in the heart.
What is the voice calling?
Who wants you home, child?
And if home is a warm meal, a bed,
a bath, a glass of milk,
a known touch,
then do you own your skin?
Aren't you small and lonely?
You are not.
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 5:05 PM UTC
En wanneer hou ons piekniek op die maan
- daar waar die son nie meer skyn nie,
kan ek jou donker toevlug wees
as die dag se hitte steek?
en sal jy 'n skadu gooi
oor my en my lieflike hart
ons kan saam met strome swem
as die branders oor ons breek.
Voor vrees jy weer oortrek
en my noodloos in die noodlot agter laat
in 'n eensame straat, van drome
en ander herrennerings wat by my *****
van liefde en so ook my verlede
wat jy veronderstel was om te tem.
En in die gaap van stilte tyding
waar die wysers ons vermy, sing
ek my eensaam lied en vra vir jou...
**** jy die golwe huil vir die koeelronde maan?
Sien jy die spore op die strand?
Waar vat die pad van verdwaaltenis my,
anders as na Jonker se hand.
Vanaand is ek verslae.
Die maan se kind trek pêrels en rol hulle oor die hartseer berge. Vanaand le ek en dryf, terwyl ek kyk na die maan, en die sterre...
sal jy my wolkombers wees
, my glimlag pille vir kersfees,
want ek is dalk te arm
, maar ryklik met jou geseen.
Sal jy my korrel sand , my rooikruis , my boei
want my hart is reeds verweer
, keur my voor ek ook
in die see uitbloei.
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 3:41 PM UTC
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 ****** 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
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 5:22 AM UTC
The bad seed :: takes root :: roots extend :: in the head :: A constant branching :: budding bursting :: away :: and away :: and away :: roots branch and extend :: The Holy Schism :: Mother's breast :: bisected :: salt and milk :: curdle :: then settle :: into the nine creamy layers of Hell :: roots extend :: bury into Her pith :: bisected :: a honeysuckle rut :: Mother screams :: a poisonous :: foam :: spraying Her wither around :: killing :: the sacred cow :: :: :: there :: there She is :: the pretty blight :: the slit :: in the stem pursed tight :: down lower :: over two hills :: to a black and blue lagoon :: Mother in bloom :: Her putrid flower :: slaps open sloppy :: wide :: open :: for osmosis :: for curdled spore spew :: sucking flaccid :: with lips and teeth
Oct 29, 2011
Oct 29, 2011 at 7:55 PM UTC
Your mind is an abyss sated with emptiness,spore of an ink-jet,
the heart is erupting with repugnant repulsiveness.
Your conscience ravage by your impulsive act.
You indulge in savagery shackled by misery creativity is a mystery .
You diverged from an honest life and now you're perjuring in art you dark-prowlers.
Converged with parasites marauding, Proud-Writers.
Cursed with uncertainty you're embracing lies, in the realm of thieves there's a decaying crown.
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 4:41 AM UTC
Strike a mark on a sun kissed shrine
Cheek bones, dance within the sand's light -
Lambent spore sprig -Rot - beneath the mine
Lay the tourniquet fused, marble eyes.
Center stark stork - wracked to atomic bliss
Forked tongue minotaur, auric troubadour -
Machinations of bellowed amethyst,
Composed the flowered Aum, raising thy *********
Arachnid's webbing - strung of turquoise beads -
By what are the viscid lines severed clean
That they convolute binaural progeny,
And lure the soul to breathe?
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 7:17 PM UTC
U for Unilateralis Cordyceps. The fungus enters an ant's body through its respiration. It invades it's brain and changes how it perceives smell, because ants do everything they do from their smell of pheromones, right? So this microscopic little fungal spore, then makes the ant climb up the stem of a plant and bite hard on a leaf, with an abnormal force. The fungus then kills the ant, and continues to grow, leaving the ant's exoskeleton intact. So, a small fungus drives an ant around as a vehicle, uses it as food and shelter and then as the ultimate monument to itself. And when the fungus is ready to reproduce, its fruiting bodies grow from the ant's head and rupture releasing the spores, letting the wind carry them to more unsuspecting food. There, our entire idea of free will down the bin.
One single small fungus spore does that to an ant. You have trillions of bacteria in your body. How do you know where you end, and where your environment begins.
We invent God, soul... heaven, afterlife...even life-imitating technology, all sorts of transcendence to cope with the idea of an absolute end. And then, we die for an idea that promises us some sort of immortality.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 4:00 AM UTC
when that hopefully ecofriendly R.I.P becomes my final home
whether bios urn
or spirit seed
or any trendy tree from corpse to copse,
from dust to leaves
or better than
a crematorial commode --for fresher air and fuel for brighter flames
transplanted into other selves
redressed in mushroom spore-suit
seeded with the genes of generations hence and past,
piercing veils to fruit above again,
a mycophile to the last--
i will have lived with growth in mind,
that firm amorphous
ground opining green
to kindly live and die in kind
foment another view,
encompass monumental evanesce
supernal tablets branching neo-dolmen ethernexusnets beyond the r00ts
barking technoshaman psychic rings about a fiberoptic rosey,
perhaps a sappier refrain for finer silica domains
to sing along and echo Dryads doting long ago,
in threaded tones the make-remaking fold
of earthenborn rekindled kin of stars
decided to invent to cater otherworldly themes
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 11:13 PM UTC
When the carrot finally snaps,
And covers the world in mushrooms,
And the thoughts and dreams of billions cease-
We'll be where that sacred spore takes hold,
Waiting for it to bloom,
Patiently waiting while making love
Sacred spores with sacred purpose!
Find your targets well!
Find us! Find us!
We are fertile soil!
How delicious would it be,
For spore and seed and egg to meet?
A life beginning,
And ending
In one spectacular flash and roar!
**** we'll go down swingin'
To every movement swayin'
Your hips and mine, sweet slammin'
You know what I'm sayin'?
And as the flash and roar subside,
We will be mushrooms
And tar
And ions
And eons
And eons
And eons
We will be gone <3
Oct 8, 2018
Oct 8, 2018 at 4:35 PM UTC
It was only the shape of the mushroom cloud
That gave the game away,
It’s not that we weren’t expecting it,
It could happen any day,
But when it came on a Sunday as
We all trooped out of church,
We wondered, where was the Saviour,
Had he left us in the lurch?
By chance, the missile had missed the town
Fell thirty miles away,
Up in the distant ranges
In the vineyards of Cathay,
So much for the vintage of Semillon
I thought, with barely a frown,
Will anyone miss it once we’ve gone
And scorched that fertile ground?
It’s strange, with imminent death you feel
So suddenly detached,
Go in, and shelter from scorching heat
And shards of broken glass,
That’s all there was with the Cathay bomb
It fell so far away,
I looked at Jean and she looked at me
Was this our final day?
The sound came rumbling over the hill,
In a long, unbroken sigh,
I clung to her and she clung to me,
There wasn’t time to cry,
A moment passed and a moment more
And still we stood our ground,
I thought we might get to live some more
While God was looking down.
We’d lost our friends in the vineyards
They’d been vaporised to dust,
Jean said we’d better not think of it,
But I replied we must.
We both were seized with a single urge
As we clawed our way to bed,
And thought we couldn’t be doing this
If both of us were dead.
An eerie glow in the sky that night
Kept all of us awake,
We didn’t know where the bomb was from
Or what more we could take.
A second cloud in a mushroom stew
Rose up, there would be more,
From somewhere else where the evil grew,
The day of the mushroom spore.
David Lewis Paget
Jul 21, 2017
Jul 21, 2017 at 5:17 AM UTC
Intergalactic
Meteorite-spore-plague
Apocalypse now
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 11:11 AM UTC
ambiance amplified and gravitas dead inside
drink alone, danger zone, shot the Jekyll, saved the Hyde
cut my seat belts so my doors wouldn't beep, though
I creep with a fleet of conceited banditos
to the park, skip some rocks, play the shark, shuffle birds
find the narc, go and knock, make it bark, no one heard
a million reason to stay awake wide-eyed tonight
ninety-nine ******* one problem: you're in my line of sight
black & decker woodpecker, fur-trap chop with my power-drill
trill wagon, cool dragon flagon of honey mead on the window sill
unseen fiends mean for stones out beating streets to smithereens
you only live nine times: shake the earth, **** the silver screens
pair of sweet, pear-shaped tweets for you to meet in the suite,
they can show, you can see that they know how to greet
enough throwaways to keep boost mobile open
enough light reflecting princess cuts that they think my neck is frozen
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 2:46 AM UTC
dark musty I am attracted, opposite poles,
a moth to the absence of light,
my mushroom blooms
the deepest shade of azure
awakening here, molding at the spore,
the leafs and paper and rat droppings
echo down the causeway,
the red rusted gutter escape flows into
nothingness behind me, I hate you; so obese,
rotund like a dimorphism of rubenesquery and retardation,
bent beyond shape,
borrowed against ****
I’ll collect the interest someday, maybe today,
or perhaps we’ll continue on smiling as we have
knowing that I pulled the last vestiges of your humanity,
shorn and weeping,
from your carcass years ago.
You are mine.
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 12:13 PM UTC
When its sharp it storms the mind,
swirls of smoke & hate combined-
slither insidiously they entwine,
damage done worse every time.
Clouds to crave- poison waves
seen through white glass & a delirious daze
to dull forever an old sun's rays
light which used to shine out always
now bends inward, refracting in ways
to disguise & confuse in an camouflaged haze.
more & more & more & more
of the curse that never ends,
be it smoke or crystal spore
or snake disguised as friend.
I feel it deep within my core
I desperately pretend
you'll be back to fuel me or
a hand someone will lend.
Feb 22, 2017
Feb 22, 2017 at 1:53 AM UTC
Die waarheid
In die nag se doodse donker
is selfs die krieke stil
, maar saam met honde huil
-Bloedstollend- weerklink haar gil
Die waarheid breek die stilte
die buurt slaap onversteurd
sy knaag weg aan my siel
... los my stukkend en verskeurd
Teen haar aanval is ek magteloos
, met net die wapens van die gees,
mens kan haar nie oorwin nie
want waar jy nog moet beskerm -
was sy alreeds gewees
Sy laat haar droewe spore
in die kamers van jou hart
en met vlymskerp, rooi vingernaels
los sy letsels van die smart
Teenstander. Díe is sy nie-
retireer vir geen swaard, nóg gebede
haar verwoesting : jou eie toedoen
slegs spoke van jou verlede...
Tog , selfs in waarheid lê daar leuens
-versprei in dit wat sy voorspel
, want die einde van jou storie
is joune om te vertel
ja...
*** droewig okal haar verhaal
bly dit jóúne om te bepaal
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 5:54 PM UTC
You burn me with your poisoned tongue
Your vicious bile you spill
The hatred pours from every spore
Hating people at your will
Who gives you the right to stand so tall
Who gave the right to judge
What made you such a bitter cow
The right to hold a grudge
What makes you think I give a ****
About the thing's you say
I'll just hold my head up high
And simply walk away
Dec 10, 2010
Dec 10, 2010 at 4:06 AM UTC
Yours is the haze my friend
& all that is within it confined.
Yours is a lush pink haze
leaden with rotting hope,
with amethysts and emeralds
of fear and caution encrusted.
Damp to the feel and on your face
Nurturing your peace and surrender
as they grow and colonize like fungi
parasitic and spore forming... contagious
they gnaw at your spirit with false contentment, my friend.
Yours is the haze and all it harbors
of lush stupidity and gullible naive comfort.
yours is a web of intrigue, woven by your senses
and calcified by your precious mind.
but blame not your mind, it was merely following orders
obeying authority, your Ego's authority
for your ego is your shepherd and you my friend
you are the one sheep in his flock.
A sheep, lowly, & sickly but this sickness is subclinical
and it comes with an insidious onset.
And you my friend,
you are doomed to relapse again and again.
Be assured, it is a sickness
and it spews from your gentle mouth
with a painstaking stink.
Not long ago your ego was just like you.
not a shepherd, you were both young
smooth skinned and pampered,
breathing in knowledge and breathing out gaiety.
Cubs, equal in status and in innocence;
your paws were smaller then and your claws were blunt
and the sweetest taste was of your mother's milk.
Now power seems much more tempting
safety and stability are all the more precious
and your ego gorges on all...
It grows and swells with the blood and guts of its prey.
Thus trapped you shall remain my friend
so long as your ego's web comforts your spirit
and change startles it, makes it run, flee
it scatters and cowers behind cardboard walls
drapes, silk curtains and the smoke of a burning life.
Stay there my friend, for as long as you find comfort
but when it bores you or numbs you,
don't delay and don't hesitate
Ask for my help, For I am your true Self.
Jun 9, 2010
Jun 9, 2010 at 4:19 AM UTC
My rowe lê al spore
Op my palms wat klou
Aan die yster wat my brand
Ń vlam
In die droewe kou
Ingehok, binne my eie land
Tralie hart staan ongeweer
Teen vloedwater emosie
Wat verbeeldingloos probeer
Om te rebuleer teen die seer
In my terugslag verval
My moed. Ek sal dit
Bymekaarskraap
vir ń Volgende keer.
En my vingers trek nog
Lyne en koppel my
Sondag-oggend sins
En versprei my laaste
Bietjie dignity in
Die zoo se trash bins
Terwyl ek nietig gan confess
-"Oh Father I have sinned"
Kom Jesus more weer om
My in my verlore toestand te
Kom vind....
Koop maar ń seisoenkaartjie
Vir versoening en vatsoene.
More sin ek weer.
Eks mos die duiwel se kind
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 8:07 PM UTC
In die nag se doodse donker
is selfs die krieke stil
, maar saam met honde huil
-Bloedstollend- weerklink haar gil
Die waarheid breek die stilte
die buurt slaap onversteurd
sy knaag weg aan my siel
... los my stukkend en verskeurd
Teen haar aanval is ek magteloos
, met net die wapens van die gees,
mens kan haar nie oorwin nie
want waar jy nog moet beskerm -
was sy alreeds gewees
Sy laat haar droewe spore
in die kamers van jou hart
en met vlymskerp, rooi vingernaels
los sy letsels van die smart
Teenstander. Díe is sy nie-
retireer vir geen swaard, nóg gebede
haar verwoesting : jou eie toedoen
slegs spoke van jou verlede...
Tog , selfs in waarheid lê daar leuens
-versprei in dit wat sy voorspel
, want die einde van jou storie
is joune om te vertel
ja...
*** droewig okal haar verhaal
bly dit jóúne om te bepaal
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 2:16 PM UTC
the clear autumn morning
hides nothing from the crow
as the backlit sphere
of the milkweed spore
floats by
tumbling with purpose
take a look
at what fills the air
bird leaf tree debris dust smoke cloud sunbeam
invisible eddies
my intellect
Tuesday, November 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 3:10 PM UTC