(...a talisman, perhaps...)
Four fold and full of mirth,
words yield lack and dearth.
Dreams hold drams of killing kind,
coarse drink for healing cuts
of youth’s most mean mistakes,
cleaned now and nearing clever,
never wise but wistful ever.
(Remember The Rats and the Oysters? This is what happened next...)
And then the spiders came for us.
We gave them our eye lashes
and they wove them into their webs,
into the words of their world.
We wondered what they would look like
and they stole our eyes for it.
We gave then the cilia of our
guts, but they wanted more.
They wanted the fat flagellum
of all our faked identities.
We gave them the threads
of our thoughts and they
traced the fine treacheries
of our limitations with them.
They felt the quivering
of every one of our nerves.
Our neurons became their prey
exactly where they came to rest,
sticking in the silk of their silences.
They spread their legs
to embrace the all of us,
especially those parts we did not
want embraced, They defiled
our own embarrassments and
defied the lodgings of our throats.
They sucked the sins from our insides
and spun them into empty gags and
blindfolds so that we might not witness
the uselessness of our own suffering.
They machined our sadness, honed
it to a poetically correct awareness
of the watery silks of our existence.
Our will withers on the spine
and the spine’s tinctures
strangle our limbs in their time.
she is lonely
like the lioness.
she is lonely
like the things we
lie on when we don't
lie on them,
half-empty bed, so
full of the knowledge that
one half of it will never
be lain upon and one
if only for tonight,