Chartreuse icicles for you or translucent slugs for the child turning blue or maybe iridescent chips as individual as snow. A child’s greedy tongue imbibes artemisia absinthium and green anise and sweet fennel and dreams of ambrosia. Voluptuous viridescence. I have never eaten my mucus, dry or wet. We called it Irish coal. Lung butter turns the stomach. Do women roll the snot like men into balls? Do women place snot above the latrine like men above the urinal? Pantagruel picked gold from his nose. Stephen wiped snot on the rocks. Mucus is behind shit and piss. It’s just the way it is. Piss is behind shit. Piss can’t ascend shit not even a mundane turd or a rabbit currant, but a good foamy piss ascends lung bursting mucus, but a small roll of snot ascends earwax, and so mucus is caught between not forefinger and thumb but piss and earwax and the more you produce the better for all manifest life.



paul kavanagh wrote Kitchen Sink (Aiurea press).


Edited for Unlikely by Jonathan Penton, Editor-in-Chief
Last revised on Sunday, September 19, 2021 - 22:52