Friday, March 10, 2017


Doom Slug

They speak of a giant slug on St. Salver,
its eye stalks are like wrecking balls,
its trail of slime engulfs
whole herds of cattle,
those not picked clean of flesh
by its raspy tongue.

The giant slug of St. Salver,
nude and stupendous mollusk,
juggernauts gardens and forests alike.
consumes indiscriminately,
grows fat on its victims’ flesh.

In hushed whispers the tale is told,
a young lass lost in the high country,
the gargantuan invertebrate
ravening from the fog,
a scream piercing the night.

her lover waiting vainly,
till morning burned off the mist,
slippers embroidered with crimson roses,
a gift from her grandmother,
embedded in a gelatinous moraine.

her beau set out, torch-bearing,
determined to trap the creature,
burn it to the core;
his skeleton, found much later,
was pitted and brown, brittle.

To this day, the wilds of St. Salver
are home to fear, slime, and death,
and one thing more:
it lays gelatinous clusters
of basketball-sized eggs,
and these eggs hatch.

End of poem

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