The scorching disc in the sky
and the labyrinthian bark
set the forest in a mood for a reading—or a ******
As I was reading The Metamorphosis,
I noticed a beetle
rolling this submissive ball of dung.
I thought: see, this creature is like me.
I imagined it going to work.
Maybe he has to deliver a ridiculous number of *****
and at the end of the day
he comes back home, exhausted,
and finds Mrs Beetle in bed
with another beetle.
Meanwhile,
the beetle, devoutly sculpting a ball,
rolls it toward an unknown destination.
Maybe this is a Sisyphean task—
endlessly pushing this boulder, triple its size,
making value out of dung.
The beetle paused,
climbed on top of the ball, and said:
“Maybe—none of your business, Samsa.”
It speaks!
Did it just call me Samsa?!
And I kid you not,
as it climbed down, and futile as it seems—
rolling that massive ball of dung—
The beetle smiled.
May 10
May 10, 2026 at 12:40 AM UTC
Birds perching on the clothes line.
T-shirts in a hanging,
Their arms flailing,
In a rollercoaster of the wind.
A bird sat on a shirt,
Then flew with his bird-bo,
Leaving a stain of *** or poo, or something,
Where my heart used to be.
The cell tower nearby
Had a stork nest above it.
On every sun bleeding at the set,
The stork return home for his family.
The pigeons applauded the man on the roof,
As if he was in a play, reading a play.
Basil planted on an unused plastic bath bowl,
Waiting each day, for the stork to return.
Pins perching on the clothes line.
Feb 22
Feb 22, 2026 at 10:21 AM UTC