Thursday, February 26, 2015

The Vile Mucus

    I am awash with the Vile Mucus.

    It flows in torrents from my nostrils like sexiness oozes from Johnny Depp in leather chaps atop a foam-bravin’ surfboard.

    February always catches me out this way.

    As Spring thrusts its first lustful glimmers from the drooping heads of sun-kissed snowdrops, so globules of snot roll and fornicate behind my eyes, racing for Winter’s finishing line with the presumptuous gung-ho of housewives clambering aboard inflatable dinghies to brave a lick of Johnny Depp before he abandons his surfboard and jets off to make another movie featuring endless scenes focussing solely on his beautifully formed cheekbones.

    Such glistenings, dribbles, and blasts of liquid nosegunge were foretold in late September’s berry-festooned days.

    Because mucus, then, was in evidence also.

    Only instead of Johnny Depp it was Lady Gaga, can-canning for Summer’s finishing line pursued by flocks of hot-blooded stallions grasping at her all-body condom rubber garment of immodesty.

    My mucus helps me to mark the major changes of the seasons.

    A big splash in late September, another flood of dissolved bogey husks in late Feb, with a token nod to the Gods of Nasal Splish & Squirt some time around Christmas if I’ve been stupid and gone out carol singing without a wooly hat.

    So bear with me, pity me.

    I am a walking Rorschach test a-splat upon every surface, every meal, every face...


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