You’re a ham fisted, nostril puss, put off.
A suffocating, son of a bitch.
A red-eyed, torn membrane, scratchy gulch.
Itchy pyrrhic sandpaper senses,
begetting a breathing tragedy.
Comfort, an oasis, yearning for the first frost of winter.
Dirty seed, blowing to the winds, blowing from the trees.
Grizzly gross green.
Burst pipe nostrils.
Sinus clog, green-yellow eyeliner.
Sophisticated spores spawning misery.
Crusted, nasal mineshaft vein,
haunted by cemented boogerplasms.
Nose hair tendrils throughout, impossible to retrieve without a monumental effort.
A quick blow, or two,
A Rorschach tableau, if you will?
Winds of seasons change,
a necessity now,
not just a want.