Conference Of The Snails Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Brothers, we are slithered here together
In full flood, to ooze,
Our manifesto a convoluted trail,
A trellis of slime set out in the best Celtic manner
With a flourish.

This row-boat venue is most apt.
We shall be launched in moonlight,
Secretive as the magnificent Masons

Our ceremonies shall include
Horn weavings, ritual munchings of air and mulch.

All mention of shellings will be punishable by exposure to a thrush
With long beak and no table manners.

We shall inaugurate a brotherhood of slugs;
Worms to inhabit the lower orders,
Split-backed bugs to be our emissaries.

The founder of our Faith was a visionary, Monsieur Pierre Lune
Who slipped from a rainy taxi in Paris under a whore's umbrella
To be eaten as a martyr.

We are a closed order.
We colonise the dark.
Such stereotypes those humans! So alike!
Pifft! Such nonentities!

Whereas we, beloveds, are most beautiful, mysterious,
Infinite in variety, the Chosen;
Our hymns and humours are divinely damp
As Lucretia Borgia's vulva.

Anoint your antennae with Nivea!
Each shell is a sculpture in motion,
Sliding through the parting air inhabited moistly by mushrooms.
We are a glide of turbans.
Our tiny horns are minarets of joy!