I got bitten by a spider,
but this is England.

A certain arachnid
politeness is expected,
holding back on venom,
for example,
or moving at a predictable, parochial pace
and arranging eyes, legs and hairs
to not offend.

Hanging out in bedside sleeves
so an early morning stumble
is accompanied by slow burning
pin ******
leaving mild swelling and discomfort
is just not cricket.

Don’t get me started on
those chirruping buffoons.

I have watched grief hollow you out.
Your body is no longer illuminated by an open heart.
Since the spiders crept in
the warm, gentle glow has been
smothered
by cobwebs.

Is it gonna fall on me? A spider
Or is it gonna be hanging there? A spider                                          
It got nothing to prove, I do.
Staring at it, it is approaching,
I wish it to come yet not,
Curious,if I am all immune, all these years.

Am weakend already, the warns from brown recluse
in my bed-room mirror,
A brown recluse, it does back and forth but here
other type is apporaching,
I shall remove all the clutter from my room, here
put all new furnitures,
I shall bug spray gradually without harming myself
perhaps they wont come back.

There was a dead spider in my sink
I have arachnophobia so it made my heart stop
I just stood there
Blood drained from me
Looking at this lost life
Wondering if it had a partner
Or little spider kids
That would miss it

I felt sad
Yet still scared
Ridiculous really
Maybe it was a female out searching for food
Or maybe she'd eaten her male donor
Maybe it was a him
And he'd run away to save himself.

It was under the dish bowl
I wondered if it had drowned
Or just starved to death
I found myself curious as to what it last thought about
If it was able to speak
What it's last words would have been

Maybe it was relieved
Maybe drowning is better than being eaten alive by an unthankful lover
Or by being captured in my humane catcher which sadly often broke legs
Maybe it just simply thought "Help"

I'll never know
But I do know I'll think about him or her until I think of them no more
Which might be months

The spiders glide in night by night,
Following a trail, light by light.

On top of the webs stand the spiders,
Ready to attack all threats with lighters.

A schism of venom to fill the cracks
Of the pieces that have always fit
And a wall is lifted upon their backs;
A webbed foundation of grit.

Faerie;
With your golden eyes,
your sharp-toothed smile,
the words you spin in gossamer,
in starlight,
in orb-weaver silk.

You compose
a symphony in mycelium:
Each tree an instrument,
each interwoven root
a note in harmony.

Silvertongue, sundew,
you have set a snare with green willow,
a net of blackberry thorns,
baited it with honey.
All around, the evergreen pines,
the winter roses bloom.
A sweet end,
arranged in perfect circles
for you and I alone.

I step, happily, toward your waiting arms—
for with your clever, clever fingers,
oh,
sunflower,
you have
stolen
me
away.

bold arachnophobes
**** spiders as best they can...
don't burn down the house