Inky Caps
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You motherfuckers eat yourselves
day after day back into the soil,
think you can rise up again
all puffy-white in the morning
just to congeal into black tomorrow

me? when i curl up into myself
i want to leave my ammonia mark on the page 
like the old scotts
who grabbed faeries in their huddled clusters, the hares, the magpies
and let them all simmer down to goop 

but the coprine hangover is strong
and i can feel tomorrow's stubble coming 
in like shaggy manes, can feel it
melting off to the sound of razor blades
to grow again, stubborn as the inky caps
and i have some furtive hope that 
tomorrow, they'll stay solid a little longer
and then a week, and then a year
as if nature herself could get better.