Long Fungal Poems
Long Fungal Poems. Below are the most popular long Fungal by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fungal poems by poem length and keyword.
Shush Sushobhan,
she’s pushing her hand to my rock hard in the back of reception
your girl wowing at my fat long perfection,
I guess she thinks of you as rejection
after you spent a fortune forging affection,
less valued than my shlong.
Meanwhile slow and little brains porky pig
my circuit short twig tool of a boss is on an investigation
overpowered by resentment she gets my attention,
such minute intelligence reveals her intentions so evident,
I could read signs and tell of pending events,
whilst she's happy to believe I was unaware and dense.
I've cotton on to your rotten pong wanting me gone
and plotting for so long, me out witting miss puppet for the job,
accusations she'd lob
ridiculously smitten with my downfall,
now for your downfool…..
Think you’ve done better cus you ass lick more,
you’re brainy like a fruit basket whore,
That Greek bloke dumped you and not one man showed interest
it's because you’re a character men detest,
ugly with clothes on, mental scars undressed,
personality like a side dresser past it’s best,
beast and the beast misses fungal yeast,
walking around in a black suit putting yourself on the radar
put a helmet on your ugly face you’d be like Darth Vader,
no I mean,
a daft failure,
you think you're important
cus you're mentally dormant,
job performance level of slumber
dumb and dumbers dumb dumbster,
means, you are the dumbs dumped dumb stuff,
moustache and bum fluff, dog bark rough.
Let’s meet up again and see if you play those games,
now you’ve no title, see who reigns falls, up yours.
I am Lilith, like a ghost pipe
under oak shadows of Tomorrow River Valley
hiding in-between hours, roots sipping moonlit juice
borrowed from Eden, a deception of men ascending
into the hollow of my forgotten stories—
awaiting Judgment and Consumption,
theirs and mine.
I am the decider beside night’s veil
weighing their worth with serpentine grace,
tail hidden from men beneath the stars' cloak.
I am a corpse-plant resurrected, ancient
listening memory gleaned from the decomposed
feet beneath my feet bound too, my sisters—passing
arcane secrets, drained from the womb of a fecund
forest floor.
Pursing my shaded petals loosely, I decide
as I am Lilith with echoes of men—
whether to welcome bees' seeking, upside-
down crawling, let them enter my hung-over head
in full drooping bloom of bitter white,
or remain in my haunting place, sisters praising
the decayed earth from which I sprang where none
but poison ivy thrives, eternally waiting.
Waiting for a naturist or an open mind to find
then sever me clean, under my milky knees
soak my tender spine and shake my dusky bell-head
in potent distillations, freshly freed.
You must drown me before I decompose
with my story of unease untold this cycle—
before bees transform me into a taste
of fungal honey, night-blackening my stem,
whiplashing my ghost head skyward, now hollow
in its posturing tribute to useless sun—
You must pick me. Use me as analgesic, sip
on my secrets, but please leave my sisters be
so that I may come again through them
when discomfort returns,
for I am Lilith, with time's esoterica
tucked under my thumb, rooted in wait
for the cycle to begin again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Willows weep in the morning sun.
Roots write braille onto buried rocks.
Each ring a witness to droughts, floods~
observer of seasonal tides.
Willows weep in the morning sun.
Sap pulses slow as glaciers melt~
veins map stories untranslated
by wind, beetle, or human sighs.
Willows weep in the morning sun.
Underground, fungal threads ignite
enzymatic cries for kinship~
networks flaring like neural stars.
Willows weep in the morning sun.
Sunrise cracks the bark; forest breathes
oxygenated confession~
We have always known how to wait.
The Mycorrhizal Network
“Flowers fade and decay through wintry hours—waiting for rebirth.”
Beneath the forest’s separate skin,
white threads connect each breathing thing—
fungal highways no eye can witness,
trading sugar for rain.
The Douglas fir feeds the hemlock
when shade has stolen all its sun,
carbon passed from root to root like gossip,
like care without a name.
The mother tree knows when her seedlings starve
and sends them what they need to live—
nutrients flowing through the dark communion
that makes the forest one.
This is the conversation
we mistake for silence up above:
ten thousand root-tips touching, speaking
in the syntax of soil.
When the chainsaw bites through bark and wood,
the network feels the amputation,
chemical alarms flood through the mycelium—
warning: something cuts, something dies.
The gods were deleted and the tribes archived
the Vista-View—two bedrooms
beige-on-beige a fungal beard
colonizing the microwave’s lip
You watched the iron bars then the glass
then the greenish biometric light
the glass drinks the whorls of your thumb
a cyan leech labeling the ridges before
the neurons arrive early
coaxing a instinct to open its eye
matter blinking awake in their wake
always a beat behind
its outline—stubborn delayed—stumbling to catch up
A vertebra clicks and the world misfires
the locker room’s thick lactating reek
wet cement and the chemical musk of
Axe Phoenix—a scent so violent
it strips the insulation
it kicks you back into the teenage animal
gristle of your own neck
3:14 a.m. at the Wawa parking lot
sodium lamps stutter in saltatory arcs
leaking amber data into the asphalt
a signal failing to hop the gap
unsure which reality they are meant to illuminate
You a prisoner
You the Ouijaboard
the opera is transcribed in unpaid late hours
stripped myelin pale lipids drifting like snow
the white noise of your own making
slowed to an unmarketable frequency
The listening that is not a listener
does not want your confession
it waits for the precise imperceptible
asymptomatic instant
your respiration falls out of compliance
Status: nerve sheath thinning
Status: saltatory conduction faltering
Status: epineurium issuing final instructions
This was before they were banned
From overhead storage.
Amazing how one Durian can clog
So many confined bobbing heads.
A stomach turning air turbulence
Is yet more desirable than
That choking miasma of emissions
Which waft from their pulpy substance.
In foreign parts beer is not quaffed
While consuming Its flesh.
No one says why.
I do say however
For it is disturbingly wonderful
to glug while munching
That earthy reek.
To gormandize upon
The fungal billowing
Of its noisome meatiness,
Is an experience only
The reckless may speak of.
The creamy white meat
Around the large pithy seed-eggs
Beguiles the mouth to suck
And pillage its pale treasures.
While the cold beer
Both numbs and shocks
a cringing brain.
I have found it blows the mind
Yet leaves only the stench
Of a gluttonous well-being
That permeates through
Every orifice.
Those unused to the potency
Of being alone with a ripe Durian
Should not fly or be ill prepared.
For even when sealed in cargo
The funk of the fruit stuns and stupefies.
Fellow passengers
Demanding parachutes
High above over the Indian ocean
Have been known to renounce
Their white privilege
Or fall to their knees in prayer
Hoping against hope
That ventilating masks
Will drop into the contaminated cabin.
Naturally, there is no escape
For even when they disembark,
Cabs will not carry them,
And all will shun even the shadow
Of a Durian
Once its odor has latched onto
Your trembling soul.
An offering from my slush-pile in lieu
of anything new
Santa’s sleigh crash landed in the jungle
He got caught in the branches of a tree
He had a wound that could be turning fungal
And sought help from a passing chimpanzee
The chimpanzee was friends with a gorilla
Who said, “You don’t belong up in this tree.”
And Santa said, “Now look, I’m not Godzilla,
So will you or the chimpanzee help me?”
The chimpanzee said, “Ooh-ooh, aah-aah, ooh.”
So Santa bellowed loudly, “Ho Ho Ho!”
The gorilla slapped his hand across his forehead,
“If you’re both talking nonsense I shall go.”
So Santa built a grotto in the jungle
He taught some marmosets to work as elves
A job that Santa hoped they wouldn’t bungle
And soon they would be putting toys on shelves
But then he pulled his sleigh with lions as reindeer
That was an error (soon he’d have the proof)
Although we don’t get snow or freezing rain here
Those lions and the sleigh fell off the roof
When Santa hit the ground his head was foggy
He yelled, “You lions are a bunch of peasants
Each one of you is just a clumsy moggy
So dumb you can’t deliver children’s presents.”
Their Christmas lunch so juicy that it squelched
The lions ate their fill then licked their paws
One lion looked embarrassed when he belched
And then said, “Oops, we’ve eaten Santa Claus!”
I can see it now
Through the dismal mist
Pass the sorrowful heather.
With it's impotent beige bloom
Mossy fungal stone
Strangled by ivy contagion.
Up above,
Jackdaws seeking justice
Squabble and shreik.
Each one with a crown of thorns.
I sit,
Beguiled by a simplistic beauty
Under a pitiful April sky.
Forgetting all the constructions of man.
Up here,
The foundations of convictions
Can start to shake.
I could easily slip
Into the rhythms of ancient silent prayers
And sing softly those tragic hymns,
To doleful face cattle
Chewing obediently on everlasting cud.
Father and son in the same world, facing opposite directions
both consciences battle it out in the ring beneath the palace
if his father won’t be in hell, he will be five minutes late
a man of no honour, less reverenced than his own white horse
this young man hawks kindness to his people to see the difference
but they are ravaged by the fungal itch of his dad
his hands are open to ease them of their pain from blisters
they reject from the perceived smell of the palace’s butchery
the man sitting on the throne flunks his people’s welfare
to the son, without their love, there’s no freedom
what is the use of a conglomerate without loyal employees?
why should the affliction of a people be a mortal’s delicacy?
in his dad’s chapter of the kings’ chronicles
he forbids the nation’s historians to write down his name.
if he’ll be the next leader, his father’s portrait will be painted in red.
Picture # 4
Santa had a tiny elf
His feet were growing large
And everywhere Santa went
The elf's big feet would sparge
Santa spent so much time
Making the elf new shoes
Because it was late spring
Snow melt did ooze and ooze
Everyone knew when he was near
Because his feet smelled like cheese
Old, old stinky parmesan
Others would tease and tease
Santa needed a solution
To this big problem, so
He asked all the boys and girls
To send him answer though
He received so many letters
With answers quite clever
From soaking his feet in tea
To changing the weather
Santa was busy answering
All those long dear letters
He could not make any new toys
His mind was tied in terrors
Mrs. Claus came up with a solution
So, they could get back on track
Now everyone is happy
And filling Santa's sack
I know you want to know the secret
That helped those stinky feet
She took tiny elf to the doctor
Who prescribed some meds sweet
Anti-fungal tablets to take
Powder like downy sheets
Lots of soap and water to clean
Clean socks, oh! a great treat