If one sits still long enough
Mushrooms will begin to grow on their skin like edible tattoos.
Fungus of every colour, size, and smell
Sprout in response to a thought, dream untouched,
Wish gone awry. Eating your own strengthens the resolve,
Not waste, taken and absorbed back into the collective.
Cultivated and naked bodies
Create plentiful for the world, assist in darkened rooms,
Stored from the sun and savoured as thinly sliced
During parties of ill repute; women dressed
In dark coloured floor length dresses, eyes
Distorted by kohl, mysterious and secretive
While the men stand to the side, their purpose not yet given.
Samples of everyone lay about, the atmosphere like an opium den,
Gothic tragedy creating
Such sexual frustrations and non-limitations to those
Who truly deserve it.
Those who are beyond normal, those who savour
Their own blood as the finest wine, drawn
From their slender wrists with pearl handled knives
And glasses heated and waiting.
Their eyes, violet and piercing, their mouths painted with
Crushed blueberries, they are the ones who eat of the mushrooms
And drink sweet absinthe and blood, thoughts dancing
From one to another.
It was here that I was born, naked and pale
And ready to eat my own flesh
That was dusted and oiled with unguents made from faerie wings
And first kisses. Artists and writers, thinkers
Populate the rooms where the flesh mushrooms grow.
Hidden from the sun for it will kill them, vampiric souls
That occupy flesh caskets, making them lord and rulers
In a world that has yet to experience fear.
26 September 2006