Heaps of praise showered On the firmament On planets and stars Hearts overwhelm by beauty of nature Poetry in abundance Worms face stark discrimination No one writes about them No one sympathizes with them For they're lowly creatures Inhabitants of sludge and sullage Stinking gutters, places suit them Mankind loathes them For they live in toxic environment Toxic not for them But for humans Humans think Worms are pitiable creatures Live in helly conditions Worst kind of creation Undergoing punishment Curse anyone? Say with bitterness Be a worm of a ***** gutter As if it would Be a worst kind of punishment Foolish they're Worms live in Most favorable conditions for them Making hell for humans Sense of sight Sense of hearing Missing for them They live happily in their environment Humans blessed with Sense of sight Sense hearing Turn blind and deaf To human misery Worms living in human form Teeming millions Slum dwellers on this earth Befriending worms In stinking gutters In reality Lowliest creatures Flush out stinking gutters Let's bring them to better conditions Make humans Of worms in human form!
A bold density of memory anchors, scattered across a past where colour saturates like someone sat on the remote control, holy hand grenades on loose afternoons with the slap and bicker of passing the joypad in blithe ignorance of washing piles deadlines and empty pockets
Drifting in the now, helium light, well-heeled but drab, absent fingers trace the slight links on the line around arthritic ankles as they gently, surely give
I was told if I ate worms, I could fly. Ever since, I've stepped over sun-baked sidewalk worms. I recall eating an orchard apple from the ground. That didn't end well. Rockwell suggested frying them. Hamlet punned about worms travelling through a King. Don't be called a worm. Don't worm your way in, You'll likely find a hook. I'm forever grounded. The worm hasn't turned.
the body of the world dies slowly under the blue sky, - ants are also in competition with death, they recycle their ***** in plastic bags, sunflower seeds chew their own shell, the sun dies slowly on terra”s body pierced by white worms.
My head is full of worms They squiggle around making little indistinct noises and i can't understand what they say but it sounds nice. Like a soft rustling that wants to alert me of their presence but not be distured by me. "I'm here!" they say, "But don't think too hard!" "Or we'll disapear." And you'll be left with an empty head