Mushrooms

Tiny, sensual things -- so full of sporing needs,
Coming briefly alive in passions sweaty furnace,
Taking juicy respite from life's boring ritual;
All engrossing, their dark and fruity thrills.

But keeping true to mould's eternal creed:

That fungus is what fungus does.

Spreading fast and spurning sensible limitations,
Passionately crowding everywhere,

All gone deaf with groaning indignation.

Their swollen heads so full of fertile promise,
Gone in one bite, but tastily recycled,

Back to where they started from.

But never fearing death, oh no,
Or of being morosely ignored from above;

For the universal muck heap awaits!
Overflowing with such richly embroidered muck
And such sweetly worded promises.

It being praised and raked so thoroughly,
Madness made so much richer than mundane reality.

If only they can stay your gentle light,
Oh great and glorious One.

Left spreading their shade in blissful ignorance,
In time they'd find a darker, richer muck,
In which to bury their blind and foolish heads.

Copyright © 1991