Wrote a poem MOFOS

Hana Kuso

Just like a porn star

Inevitably gets their arsehole

Stretched out

Ugly even for a shitting orifice

Well my nostrils

They are being stretched out

Gaped

Fucked by my fingers

Over time

Decades

As I reflexively pluck out

The nose shit

The crusty crud of

City dwelling

That crystalises in my nose tube

I don’t even snort cocaine

I just inhale the unpleasantness

Of being around 20 million other

Homesapiens

And their horsepower crux sprud fire crackle shit skoddery

Fuck me I hate to breathe around my fellow man

Picking my nose is all I can

Do to shit out the nose poo

Hair won’t do

So sorry if my fingers are digging upwards to my brain

I need to do it or I’ll go insane

In Japanese they call

Words: Speech leaves

Fireworks: Fire Flowers

Snot: Nose Shit

Hana Kuso

Gesundhfuckingeit.

BLOGEY

In the lexicon of the Japanese tongue, where cherry blossoms rain like soft confetti upon cremation urns and words are petals loosed from the mind-tree, there comes an aberration.
Hanakuso (鼻くそ) — “nose shit.”
Nose (hana). Excretion (kuso).

So the human face, with its weeping orifices and thermal exhaust vents, births petals of crust. The nose, that olfactory shrine through which gods and toxins alike are inhaled, produces this grotesque blossom: a dried artifact of breath, a testament to the body’s ceaseless filtering.

But what is snot?

It is mucus, that gelatinous, protein-laced lubricant excreted by goblet cells—humble priests hidden in the temple walls of the sinus labyrinth. Mucus is the body’s scrollwork of defense, encoded with enzymes, antibodies, and cellular debris. It entraps particulate blasphemies: spores, soot, pollen, and the unclean breath of fellow hominids.

When it dries, it becomes hanakuso—a sacred fossil, ossified by the silent wind of nostrils breathing in a world aflame with particulates.

THE METROPOLITAN NASAL APOCALYPSE:

Do you know why City Dwellers grow denser nose hair? Did you even know that’s a fucking thing? No, you didn’t… because sadly nobody reads this fucking brilliant blog. I write it purely for my own entertainment about oddly specific things I already know.

I live in Tokyo, one of the greatest shitholes on earth: a hive of combustion, where lungs sip diesel, and the rain tastes of battery acid. In this man-forged Eden, the human body begins its adaptation.
Nose hair thickens.

Why? Because the air is no longer air. It is particulate scripture, flecked with metallic sermons, microplastic liturgies, and fungal psalms. Each breath threatens the cathedral of the lungs. The body, in silent revolt, thickens the hedge at the gate—the vibrissae, those coarse nasal sentinels, grow wilder, denser, like ivy on a forgotten mausoleum.

It is the city’s unwholesome kiss that demands this follicular uprising. The nose becomes a thatched shield.

GERIATRIC BLOOM: Why the Nose Hair Grows With Age

Feeling old? You already died inside reading up to here… if you are a slow reader, it might have taken you decades to discover this wonderful post. Aging is that slow molting of the self, and it does not come gently. Testosterone—boys and girls both need it—begins to betray its host. In the hormonal aftermath, hair receptors awaken in odd places. The nostrils, like dormant graveyards, erupt in weeds.

Nose hair grows longer, thicker, more determined. Not out of usefulness. Nah, my fellow fleshbags, that’s entropy. It is a grotesque resurrection. Youth reborn as biology’s senile graffiti. And thus the elderly man, once smooth-faced and silver-tongued, becomes host to a miniature bramble nest in the four holes that lead to his hardening racist-befuddled brain. Hi Dad!

CONCLUSION: THE COSMIC JOKE OF HANAKUSO

In a language that calls fireworks Fire Flowers, and words Speech Leaves, even mucus cannot escape the florid metaphor.
Hanakuso—the shit of the nose, dried and cast away.

But let us not laugh too soon. For what are we, if not soft machines extruding meaning from mucous membranes, crafting language from the same throat that gurgles phlegm?

The body is not sacred. It is ritual machinery, clogged with symbolism and snot.

Embrace your hanakuso. It is your communion wafer with the absurd.