Phlegm slithers down the sink
its slow descent towards the stink
Hands of mucus and hair reach
out like Hell's hellions to ensnare
the whimpering shade, pathetic
adorned with bloodied fists, raised
beating their faces in rhythms anthemic
A mirror is their sole spectator
A reflection is an unreliable narrator
that sees a God that punishes fear,
the pen that writes infinite narratives
Pain, the transformative element
is the absence of language
Its primeval elegance
so glad we are outside
I heard something coming from my dog’s throat
not once or twice but four times
he has thrown up some gunky gooey mucus-like stuff
four piles of it
something slimy and foul
I am so glad we are outside
my other dog races over to eat it
At three, the garden writes itself in slime—
silver calligraphy across the flagstones
where I pace in my wool habit, sweating.
The moths are frantic priests
hurling their small bodies at the lamp’s false sun,
again, again, a liturgy of burning.
I used to call this Devil’s hour.
Now I know there is no Devil,
only the slug’s blind pull toward rot,
the cartography of appetite
mapped in mucus on the path
where saints once walked to Matins.
The hostas are being eaten.
Something is always eating.
I watch a moth singe its wing-dust on the bulb—
that powdery baptism, useless—
and drop stunned to the stones
where a slug begins its pilgrimage across the corpse.
This is the only honest prayer:
mandibles working in darkness,
the chemical shimmer of a slug’s foot
seeking the soft meat of decay.
No one is listening. No one was ever listening.
The garden teaches me its single lesson—
matter consuming matter,
the world folding into itself
like hands at vespers, purposeless,
perfect. The moths know
what I am only learning:
light is not love. Light is just light,
and we are who burn for.
He asked me to kiss him today like he usually did….
Dabbing my back like an impatient kid needing the loo
I tiredly turned slowly to his usually soft forehead kiss….
… but today his lips tasted like mistrust.
The kind layered in smirks of betrayal
Mucus sounds and other disgusting visuals
for his twisted amusement...
coughing and sneezing
allergies are kicking in
enjoying mucus
My cough was empty, my lungs struggling
There was no mucus, I was worn out from the hacking
My mother put Vicks vapor rub all over me
The soles of my feet, my back, my neck, my chest
It was two a.m. we were desperate for sleep.
She fixed me vanilla chamomile tea
Stirred in honey
Drink this, she told me. You will be much better
Nothing helped my sore throat before this tea.
After this tea, I was a little better
My cough subsided enough so I could sleep
This was 1962, and I have never forgotten it.
They are always considered be of pain
But do we not cry the water in emotion
A joyful time of moment pleasure is felt
Mucus oil or which three tears fall
But wet thou eye's of significant relief
Tear falls, washing your eyes even unfelt
Wash and drain the pipe or overflow face
Depending on which you share the moment
Rather we cry or laughter to bring about
A tear in the droplet peeling a onion
Or you pinch the finger it seems to appear
It's a lubricant to eye's drained on down
To your nose it runs even with a cold
A water of both pain and happiness
Its only purpose, relief of anxiety
Or the beauty we find in the world
Cry your eyes out if you want to
Where does a tear come, even while sleep
There's no cutting it off, unless you got dry eye
Shed a tear for me, it's a natural thing
A tsunami of black ash blankets half a world
Trash toadstool hoodoos, wastelandic pillage
and pollutant mucus ravishes lava villages
Draining is the amalgam mass at the end of the spectrum
Stone environs shock, unnatural landscapes
Polyethylene islands flushing the canvas
Carbon contaminant fumes flair in mid drift air
Virtually no place on Earth is free of the polymer fog
Foaming magma cascades over metallic mushroom roots
Spiny shoots sprout tentacles from rubber trees
Mercury and cadmium toxin leeches' groundwater
Above the quicksand are flying objects that pass as vultures
For a million magarican dollars I was greeted by a masked spacebot
Left on moonlit Luna's Lot are my collection of yin-yang art articles
Love is so strange
It runs in wild range
It makes us drink saliva and call is a kiss
Look at container like a bless
Seek passion and lust
From layers of fatness called bust
Get pleasure from a bleeding slit
Lick mucus from a pissing hole with no regret
Saturday 7/9/2002
10:30
pm
The snail slowly slithered from the wet grass
Crossed the cracked concrete sidewalk
leaving a silky slimy slender trail of mucus
carrying a shatterable shell as its shield.
Those lines of waters, on my face, now dry,
They were left there by my tears that didn't cry,
They were the tears of good things God has done,
They are for battles that have just been won.
Those cakes of mucus, in my nose, now flaked,
They were from pains of a head that once ached,
They were left there by too much cry of joy,
They are for good things that I now enjoy.
Those funny cracks in my voice, when I speak,
They were from laughters just played on my cheek,
They were left there by too much joy of love,
They are for blessings just sent from above.
Those muscle weakness, on my legs, you see,
They were from the dance steps that bent my knee,
They were left there by lots of praise to God,
They are for success God placed where I trod.
Those dry sweats, on my body, you observe,
They were from the shouts of cheers I deserve,
They were from my thanksgiving and my praise,
Just for favours from the ancient of days.
a carcass is moving
out from the white of the eye it is
so all-consuming
dots form in lines on the absentee spine
dry undefined lumps are soft and infusing
the bruises and rind and the opal contusions
they fire with pus and with derelict mucus that
rises in shape as if living and human
adorned in the fumes as mycelium blooms and pours
wings form from mold stocks that spew from the local pores
leeching the fluids the carcass now wizens forth
reaching the sky with a forest of open sores
sink in the bleak rims of deep skin have peaked
they churn sinkage and reak sin that bleeds from the meat
and it turns as it sings and pulls taught and it dreams
knots drink him and blink in with pinkeye beliefs
Close up you can see the colossal amounts of energy
it took to grow this plant from a seed
An even closer look through the microscope,
inside lies the complete genetic information
Images of texture I can almost feel
Spikes that pop up prickly come alive
I have no limits to magnification
I can see vibrant stars dead center
Elements of sunshine tan and green
Sediments of gill filaments in V-shapes
Arrows in grooves with silver linings
Natures details to resemble filigree
Mucus glowing its sickle-shaped petal lobes
Milky sap growing within, aligning
milk vines and perfect pinwheels
Nature’s own flower arrangements
Under a microscope
It’s Sure not Miss Daisy
Drivin’
Ivan
The Over-Achiever
Be more
Igor
Big Eater Guy
Piggy
Iggy
The Straw Man
Flaxen
Jackson
Street Smart
Joseph
Knows stuff
Serial killer?
Gory
Jory
Would Love to hear from One
Call a
Jonah
The Extra Cautious
Wary
Jerry
So Burdened
Laden
Jayden
Get Him Deoderant
Smelly
Kelly
Being Cloned Thrice
Tripling
Kipling
This Guy Will Do
Any
Kenny
Who Needs To Weight Lift?
Scrawny
Lonny
Who DOES weigh lift?
Brawyn
Johnny
Halloween Lover
Scary
Larry
He’s got Tons of Them
Logan’s
Slogans
The Substitute
Stand-in
Landen
You’ve Got To
See my
Levi
So gross
Lucus
Mucus
More than Enough
Plenty
Lenny
Below Zero
Minus
linus
I have an in-born low immunity against cold,
so, when my nose ran lose and mucus rolled,
my mother used to make for me everyday
lemon coriander soup I liked, I would say.
Using mother’s recipe I now cook this soup a lot
with celery, onion, cabbage and carrot
as the primary vitamin C-rich ingredient,
combined with garlic, parsley and leek for scent.
A dash of lemon juice and a bit of sugar
make the soup appetizingly sweet and sour.
With floating coriander leaves and pinch of pepper,
the clear soup turns deliciously tangy and a gripper.
When I am down with cold and a bad cough,
this soup gives me great relief in times tough.
Savoring it piping hot bowlful at dinner with delight,
makes me feel warm and cozy in chilly winter night.
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.