189 Readings

Tokyo Fungus

The fungus eats its way through me, without eyes,

its stomach grows through my stomach,

the tissue cavern held together with strings of night.

The mushroom spoors, tendrils green and bound

with starlight, seamless distance from planet to planet.

The mushroom digs deeper into the dirt of me,

tries to take root in my Tokyo, in clean bright buildings,

and layers or rooftops busheled to tile

like forest upon forest of people, grit upon street,

piles of white paint pointing around street bends,

endless block-walled streets, deeper and deeper

into the inferno of the lung, filaments colliding

with umbrellas in the rain to terminals

of kidney where the fungus extrudes upon retention

walls holding up apartment blocks, greening

under an army of children all wearing the uniform

of eyes, awed at the massive lcd screen raising

over the ten pointed intersection, bubbling

into the brain with a fuzz of neon, beating

the night with the pulse of a luminous heart.

Growth in the sovereign forest, concrete depth,

bristling city, gleaming with thrust and ooze.

Transition of consequence, this fungus grows

on a corpse, making new gloss. The mushrooms

sprout endlessly. I build this city inside me

again and again, inside wooden houses, creaking

and filthy, inside linoleum courthouses, pathetic

and consequential, in fields of gnats and essential

cut grass, blooming with bottle caps, their gentle

edges cutting my feet. The mushroom grows in me

out of this Tokyo inside me, robot city, neon subway

map city. You don’t know, but the streets

grow like a fungus inside my mind at random

in order to confuse and fend off invading armies.  

Posted 04/20/14
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