Goomba
trotting phallically
like every mushroom I know
unable to differentiate between
an obstacle and a mate
two fangs sprung
from its frown even more
dentally immaculate
than two chunks
of white toblerone
but if it was as deadly
as a koopa troopa which could
with practice be tamed
luigi makes a swift bounce
and ricochets off koopa’s shell
like a hard-earned bullet onto
a trio of floating bricks
before the shell started scooting
back and forth when squashed
its fangs might be sharper
and its stomach possess
an insatiable hunger
for italian meat I mean how far
can two curved fangs
really serve a villain
I’ve never seen one gulp
or slobber it’s as if
only street smarts
make shrooms loveable
I still have nightmares
my arms become piranha plants
munch on one another and falling
into a pit of hot lava
a swarm of winged fungi
circle my head
when I awake I spare my wife
the details thank god
for mushroom phobias
at least I don’t have to say
the phallus flies
I often wish we were sick
so we could spend more time together
me drinking vegetable broth and you
chugging down a lemsip
like some bad whisky
our kitten licking the fireplace
instead of the four quid catnip
you’d probably google the threat
of soot on our baby but all you’d notice
is the word poison
and I’d say how everything
is toxic on mumsnet
each year I’m reminded
how september takes the breath
out of the smallest things
when we still leave
our windows edged open
and the lamp light needed
(now the evenings are darker)
lures a moth right in
to its premature death
the swat of a worn-out textbook
a brown skid mark against the wall
we will soon be as pathetic
as that moth if you debunk
another health myth on a forum
let’s cut out the blue light for good
I’d rather too much lucozade
turning me to glop
last night I dreamt I was in the middle of a lake
swimming like a hopeless chicken
shoreline receding with each breaststroke
I was a wet sticker on a vinyl
surrounded by dark grooves
I started spitting but no bubbles formed
sometimes I could reach the bottom
it was like treading on thousands of plugs
their brass pins making sockets of my tip toes
the sun rose and I tried to inspect my reflection
but the water was too pixelated
the white scars and freckles on my hands
had gone and I was as smooth as a sim
that morning I ate a piece of rotting fruit
I couldn’t laze on my bed without moving
Niamh Haran is a queer poet based in London. They are a Roundhouse Poetry Collective alumnus with poems appearing in Ink Sweat & Tears, The Interpreter's House, Bath Magg and The Babel Tower Notice Board among others.
