Snot, bogey, luge, luger, buger; its aliases are many, but even in its brief life there can be found the hands of fate, pathos, and drama.
This is my first attempt at poetry in, well, decades. It is written in a style vaguely reminiscent of Roald Dahl. It isn’t pleasant, and I’m not sure if it’s even good, but for whatever it is worth this poem is mine, even if it takes courage to own.
I believe you have had sufficient warning, please proceed at your own risk, as no responsibility will be accepted for any distress, emotional or mental, that is caused by the reading of this piece. Comments, and critique, are welcome. For your delectation: I hope you enjoy:-
It hangs, suspended, vile, green and glistening,
Neither ascending, or falling, fascinating, it swings in indecision,
The external embodiment of the body’s excretions,
The slimy, elastic mucus dangles, awaiting its fate:
Will there be tears, and a cry of, “Mommy!”?
Will the immediacy of a sleeve win the day?
Will it be delicately cupped into a small palm, to be placed in an unsuspecting play-mate’s hair?
Will the fascination of youth with colour, form, and function, lead to meditation, as it dangles, oscillating, from a single finger?
All of these fates are a path unto death; the elastic twang, and verdant green-yellow vibrancy of its life lost, now dried and crusted over into a hard lifeless shell. Eventually it will be found, and washed, and become nothing.
BUT WAIT! REJOICE! For today destiny has smiled upon this hapless pawn of fate,
The Bearer of the Snot feels a tickling, the tiniest prompting from Above,
and sniffs, mustering all the power of small lungs to retrieve the excreted life its nose does carry,
The redemptive suction draws it back,
and within the nostril’s safe harbour, it can live, and play, again.
A poem by T. James; August, 2011.