Impudent

More commonly smelt that seen,  the stinkhorn fungus achieves an evanescent erection in hedgerows and thickets at this time of the year.  The green goo on the cap reeks of putrefaction which attracts flies and they take away on their feet the spores it contains.

It was late in the afternoon when I spotted scented this one thrusting out of the ground and sadly no flies were in evidence. However it gives me the chance to share another  poem by the refreshingly direct and earthy poet Neil Rollinson whose poem  Puffballs I used in a previous blip. This one is called Stinkhorn and it also comes from his collection Talking Dead.

Nothing as rank
as the stinkhorn, its dark
and slimy head nodding
on a swollen shaft, wet
with a pungent discharge.
That looks like your dad's cock,
said Budby unzipping his 
Slazenger, pockmarked
with pink bruises.
He stood for a moment,
taking guard, then took
the bat to its head.
We heard the splat
as he launched it deep ,
into the trees, a perfect 
cover drive, and we
ground the root back down
with the heels of our new 
school shoes.

(I love the momentary double entendre of 'Slazenger' before you realise it IS a cricket bat that's being referred to. Also, the inevitable schoolboyish urge to demonstrate mastery over the lowly 'shroom, phallic or not.)