Poetry and Photography by Rhys Hughes
Danger! sinking mud
will drag you down and as
you frown it will
perish you; but mud’s good
for the skin, they say,
so come what may
I intend to dive straight in.
Why? A logical question
that I can answer
in a single session. Ready?
It’s because my
skin is very wrinkled, and
though my eyes
are periwinkle blue, it’s true
they don’t do much
to take out the creases of my
face, that façade
on the hutch called my head
where my brain
dwells in isolated splendour.
Therefore it seems
to achieve my fondest dream
of a smoother brow
I must plough a way through
seas of sinking mud;
for the aesthetic good of my
appearance, I have
validated clearance from stick
in the mud officials.
Watch me as I bound along
the beach while preaching
the benefits of goo to you
as I do; in I go,
and so now there’s mud in
your eye. Why?
An inevitable result of the
gloopy splash.
I dashed, jumped high and
came back down.
Goodbye to my corrugated
frown! Farewell
to the ripples in your eyelids.
I wave at spectators,
some well-wishers, others
haters; a dozen intellectual
debaters who wish
to pursue the philosophy of
my immersion
into the liquid glue of fate.
But it’s too late
to prevent my slow descent.
What use is talk?
Ideas are merely stalks
without the flower.
The power to cure my skin
is right here; mud
provides answers to ridged
romancers, removes
the erosion of years; that’s
the proof of the
squelchy sucking pudding.
And now I am deep
under the beach; I can teach
sedimentary schools
how to churn out filthy fools
with complexions
smoother than soft centred
confections that elephants
have reclined on.
But who might hear me down
here? Very few,
if any, that’s clear, that’s true.
I am isolated
but beautiful in the face; mud
has given me
a graceful profile, good looks
that will remain
while I abide inside the sludge.
I am grateful
but also a little bored.
I wonder if I ought to climb up
through the gunk,
my mind chanting like a monk,
emerging at last,
a singing shore thing,
ironed by pressure, troubled by
enforced leisure,
a sandy dandy with frictionless
skin? Yes, I think
I will, I certainly must; too much
mud makes me ill.
I’m the colour of rust, but I trust
you recognise me
still? I’m the mud monster but I
dream of soap suds.
Rhys Hughes has lived in many countries. He graduated as an engineer but currently works as a tutor of mathematics. Since his first book was published in 1995 he has had fifty other books published and his work has been translated into ten languages.
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