My mushroom was watered by your  juices
fertilised the head grew in your dampness.
the seedling grew in anticipation, would it
seed in needed spaces or would it be launched
to the gravity of its surroundings and fall cold.

Could this eclipse of growth be sustained, or
in the throws of becoming dehydrated in the
over gratification  of over consumption wither
in needed times and never reach its potential of
what was needed. But become withered in momentary
over indulgence and go limp in the field of warmth..

This once proud mushroom ever reaching new heights,
Its stalk standing once tall but now faltering and lying
motionless where once it stood tall. that warm space
waiting, wanting its seeds to flourish in this damp
place. Know all but dried up, waiting for another flourishing
head to seed its dampness where the other fell silently limp.

Come and lay your head down next to mine on this empty field of grass. Feel how soft the ground is all over your skin as all the clouds begin to pass.
Astonishing clouds all shapes and sizes drifting along in the sky. Cerulean images fill my colorful mind as we loose track of time. I float along with you ever changing, morphing oh so amazing these clouds above transform so quick the winds a blazing, while our eyes stay gazing at the view from up above.

You never know
How long the
Next one will last

A ripened sky splits and bleeds
Mangled reds and blacks;
An instant melts as heat from
Clustered newborn suns --
Blistered from the wounds --
Collects and beams 1600 feet
Earthwards from Fat Man's
Plump and pompous underbelly.

The pure-light pin-***** stopped
The city's pulse for a moment;
Collecting remnants of the
Beating hearts (of artists,
Doctors, students, parents,
Preachers, rats, and peasants)
To plant on rotting soil -
A hellish fungal pustule.

The swelling abscess breathed
But once and burst to
Ripple excess outwards
Soaking up the landscape;
Ingesting miles and spewing
Spores towards septic skies to form
A mass of mushroomed
Might and pyrrhic triumph.

Eating mushrooms, to her is yet another art
she loves to perfect, in my ear she whispers
with such visible pleasure,"I want to be a connoisseur in this"
Her studio smelled herbs and wild flowers of inner forest,
brought me back to the cardamom and cinnamon garden
I played in my days of boyhood; spices build a  bridge for us.

More of a herbalist than a paint smelling artist, she seems,
mounted on the wall on irregular fashion were the mushrooms
she painted with a passion rare, and a precision mirroring life;
the paintings  brought her past in to the studio, only trained eyes
would discern the cryptic symbolism, a consummate artist she certainly is!

 The woman who smoked cigars in succession and untiringly danced,
she said was her favorite, along the lake front we took a long walk
comparing notes;  there were parallels that met, we found soon enough.
"You too knew her so well, I am aware", she said. A room filled with smoke
where we dance, make love, grow tired, fall down and sleep, wasn't it our life?
No one can miss the signature smell of her dense cigar smoke on my dress!"

I loved the smell of cloves she exhaled while eating mushrooms.
though detachment she pretended, eating mushrooms never was that!
I kept looking down at her eyes, a sailor about to sight the land,
any panting moment that rushes with a monsoon song for me and her.