(The pursed turf blowing bubbles.)
(A broken string of freshwater pearls
or molars impacted in a grassy gum.)

(Firm, the
female smell on
your fingers)
(edible, packed with
cool, white roe;
the fried flesh
a savoury foam).

(It roosts on its byssus
of fine, mycelial hair,
and scans the rare vapour-trails
and glimmers in the dark–
ening, and ripens
in its socket.)


Full of foul mycenean air it squats and rocks in its stoor of blinding business.
Sheep assay it with their yellow teeth, a gassy sump of moolah.

More faux pas than supernova, its gob gapes, a puckered sphincter,
a blackened blowhole, toxic stoma.

A toff forever brewing buboes, it slips its anchor, and bowls across the clifftop,
rifting out its spores.

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