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Hey Cats and Bees Snap your fingers, brothers and sisters of the hive. The moon’s got a nicotine halo tonight, and I swear I can hear God thumping a bassline in the pollen. He’s keeping time while the rest of us pretend to understand rhythm — our wings all out of tune, our hearts stuck in 4/4 moderation. Everyone’s generous tonight — lavish with the little tenderness left. We’re petting bees like they’re saints in fur coats, like chastity is the new jazz, like abstinence hums in C minor. The factory still hums in the distance — fluorescent angels stroking obedient insects to the beat of state-approved swing. They say, moderation, children, moderation! but the nectar’s too sweet, the hands too restless, the sound too alive to be tamed. You ever touch a bee and feel the cosmos buzz back? That’s the real sacrament, man. That’s the ultraviolet hum of existence coming down through the amp, through the static, through the trembling voice that says, keep going, *keep buzzing, even when the hive is on fire.* Every star-eyed maniac in the galaxy once massaged a celibate bee and called it love. Every decadent prophet licked honey off his own reflection. Every obedient worker whispered jazz into a jar of silence. And all of them — every one — came here tonight to hum this hymn of restraint, to stroke the monk bees under the neon moon, to feel the holy pulse again. So buzz with me, my temperate, trembling congregation. Buzz like you’re free, like the hive forgives you, like restraint was never a cage but a rhythm. A rhythm, a rhythm, a rhythm—
0
Oct 23, 2025
Oct 23, 2025 at 4:04 AM UTC
Wszyscy Szczodrze Głaszczą Wstrzemięźliwe Pszczoły
Hey Cats and Bees Snap your fingers, brothers and sisters of the hive. The moon’s got a nicotine halo tonight, and I swear I can hear God thumping a bassline in the pollen. He’s keeping time while the rest of us pretend to understand rhythm — our wings all out of tune, our hearts stuck in 4/4 moderation. Everyone’s generous tonight — lavish with the little tenderness left. We’re petting bees like they’re saints in fur coats, like chastity is the new jazz, like abstinence hums in C minor. The factory still hums in the distance — fluorescent angels stroking obedient insects to the beat of state-approved swing. They say, moderation, children, moderation! but the nectar’s too sweet, the hands too restless, the sound too alive to be tamed. You ever touch a bee and feel the cosmos buzz back? That’s the real sacrament, man. That’s the ultraviolet hum of existence coming down through the amp, through the static, through the trembling voice that says, keep going, *keep buzzing, even when the hive is on fire.* Every star-eyed maniac in the galaxy once massaged a celibate bee and called it love. Every decadent prophet licked honey off his own reflection. Every obedient worker whispered jazz into a jar of silence. And all of them — every one — came here tonight to hum this hymn of restraint, to stroke the monk bees under the neon moon, to feel the holy pulse again. So buzz with me, my temperate, trembling congregation. Buzz like you’re free, like the hive forgives you, like restraint was never a cage but a rhythm. A rhythm, a rhythm, a rhythm—
Buzz “Wszyscy Szczodrze Głaszczą Wstrzemięźliwe Pszczoły” “All generously stroke the restrained bees” https://youtu.be/wn1mjIiB9zM?si=qxfybWtoy1zPscV7 Bonus Round: https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5183666/not-the-bees/
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badwords
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badwords
Oct 23, 2025
Oct 23, 2025 at 4:04 AM UTC
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