Happy Halloween! To celebrate, here’s a cheeky poem I wrote on the subject a few years ago.
WARNING: Contains scenes of a sexual and vegetable nature.
One Halloween, a night so dread the chocolates trembled
in their shells, a man and a pumpkin shared their love
to the sound of recorded wedding bells. Congratuceptions
to the happy couple! But, buried in the seeds of mother P,
a gene sequence of unacceptable horror
was on the brood. One pip-swollen gestation season later,
the children of men and legume breached the womb.
It was an ugly harvest, with too few fingers and too much pulp,
but among the writhing roots there lurked
an intelligence of fructivorous proportions. The cream
of the crop, the son of sperm and spore, and Lord,
was he a monster to adore. Father lifted him from the mess,
compared this child with all the rest,
with his heartbreak smile and terracotta chest,
and Father knew him to be the best.
The years carved beauty into him like a sculptor with a chisel
of frozen holy water, but he gave off an air, a pheromone,
that made the girls leave him alone. For under his trousers lay
a secret that he was loathe to bring to light. Between his legs
there sprouted nothing but a mass of nodes and nematodes,
and other vegetalia. This shameful growth remained unseen
until his eighteenth Halloween. At a party where people
paraded with pumpkin masks on their sweaty faces, our hero
tucked himself into a corner, his veins all thick with loneliness.
But then, he caught a splendid scent, and there,
across the room, with hair like the fronds of a golden fern,
was a girl with a pumpkin mask and chestnut eyes.
She whisked him to an empty room left fallow by the guests.
In the earthy dark she kissed his lips, and booming visions
of soil filled his mind. He lifted her skirt with a quivering hand,
and then he knew. She whispered in his ear:
“I have the same foliage as you.”
They ran outside into the frost, shrieking and yelling with delight.
They dug the earth fast and deep, and dug themselves out of sight.
Their vegetable love was more than pollination,
and down they dug,
to live and love,
and forge a pumpkin nation.
This poem was first published in The Cadaverine.