#worms
Something is living under my skin again
Something learning my shape from the inside
Fat little prophets
Blind little kings
Gnawing tunnels through the sweet meat
until the cores collapsed like wet lungs.
Under floorboards.
Inside school walls.
In the hot copper stink of train stations at night
There’s a taste in everything now
Metallic kindness
Sweet rot in the mouth
They breed flies in television static
Raise maggots in radio towers
Push their fingers through the soft skull of a starving town
and call it guidance
There’s a quiet industry inside the skull
Tiny mouths working overtime
Turning memory into compost
Turning anger into compliance
Another worm.
Another sermon.
Another mouth to crawl inside them.
May 18
May 18, 2026 at 1:59 PM UTC
daisies bloom, solos boom,
still warm, bodies warn
grave words, poppy worms;
headbang squirms their doom,
moshing out garden's tomb!
under petal, ground level,
from afar, bizarre and gross
up close, little more grandiose;
under your nose, beneath your toes,
ammo to oppose our foes!
tremble... chickens assemble!
over pedal, guitar rebel,
a memoir of a festival
mass-hell sick mess-hall;
last table, beak-feast fable,
proud soldiers stand tall!
army bloated, locked and loaded,
white death splatters ****** red
war-in no way-out, out of hand;
my friend, you did not misread,
poop-bullets worm KFC-heads!
I beg your pardon, excuse the jargon
Talking about: "Worms for the Garden"
May 13
May 13, 2026 at 4:09 PM UTC
He’s always been there. I’m not sure how long.
He’s been eating it.
It’s comforting to have someone else to grieve over the loss of less and less flesh on my apple with.
It’s nice when he leaves me a bite or two to eat.
He deserves it more than I do anyway.
He stayed with me and my apple for this long.
I think I’m getting sick because of him.
The apple is slowly rotting because of him, and it makes me sick when I eat it.
But that’s okay because I shouldn’t have been eating the apple anyway.
My apple can be his.
As long as it means he’ll stay.
Mar 7
Mar 7, 2026 at 3:10 AM UTC
"would you still love me if I was a worm"
she asked him
"of course" he replied
"how would you show your love to my worm self"
she inquires
"I would buy you an incubator and fill it up with moist dirt"
"I would feed you every day"
"I would pet your little worm self"
"I would talk to you and tell you what's happening in life"
"I would tell you all the office drama"
"I would keep your incubator on my nightstand so you can sleep next to me at night"
"so, yes, I would love you if you were a worm"
May 5, 2025
May 5, 2025 at 9:07 AM UTC
I feel how I believe an apple with worms must feel. I am aware of my desire to ripen and be eaten, and I am also aware of the ***** crawling creatures inside of me. I will be cut open, and they will see the dirt brown rotting of my core. It is a tragedy that I could've been like those sweet, red apples, and it is a tragedy that I never could've been like them as well.
Mar 26, 2025
Mar 26, 2025 at 11:49 PM UTC
Every time I see a flower
I remember my mother's words:
Don't be charmed by its colour
There could be a worm inside
Nov 23, 2024
Nov 23, 2024 at 9:57 AM UTC
There are worms in my brain.
They tend to dance endlessly.
I want them to disappear, now.
Oct 11, 2024
Oct 11, 2024 at 4:28 PM UTC
If the early bird gets the worm
then a late worm will live
but if there be an early bird
then there must be a late bird
and if so, the late worm will also die
Jun 19, 2024
Jun 19, 2024 at 2:41 AM UTC
Abusers, stepping on my bliss.
They pay for every second.
For every penny they stole
Every nuisance they wreaked
Every coupon they made a hassle
Every tax
Every charge
Every slight
All will be held due
All to account
Every bill.
You owe me fifty seven billion dollars.
You will pay the full debt of every inaction.
Abandoners, betrayers, thieves, your torment will be a thousand fold the crime you committed against others.
Trust me, you won't redo it.
Hahahaha
Aug 12, 2021
Aug 12, 2021 at 11:59 PM UTC
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
May 28, 2021
May 28, 2021 at 2:34 AM UTC
i spent
the afternoon on the
lawn in a clover patch
plucking the 4th leaf off
because last month
was so clouded
and i shone too bright
too gaudy
but now i'm here
fixing these little ********
taking their 4th
leaving 3
increasing their chance of survival
like i did with that worm
on the sidewalk this morning
i
picked her up and
hurled her into grass and
I didn't look back.
sometimes salvation is violent.
Apr 12, 2021
Apr 12, 2021 at 5:09 PM UTC
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.
Mar 31, 2021
Mar 31, 2021 at 11:47 AM UTC
Let's say,
you're an apple,
but you'd rather be a pear.
The internet recommends
phoning the produce gods,
in hopes of being replanted.
However, there's a catch:
it's a collect call
to another dimension.
And so you sulk and rage,
and pretty much bruise your skin,
until it dawns on you:
Wormholes are
spacetime's phone booth,
and it just so happens,
you're full of them!
Yes indeed!
Going bad never felt so right...
Mar 22, 2021
Mar 22, 2021 at 11:44 AM UTC
Wanna rescue earthworms
All about on the drive?
Throw ‘em back on the grass
To try keep them alive
The rain has come down hard
And flooded their worm home
Beneath where they all live
We can’t leave them alone
Before the hot sun welds
Them all to the cement
And long before their last
Squirm and wriggle are spent
Hurry and grab a twig
We’ll save ‘em, you and I
We won’t get them all
But be sure we will try
Oct 8, 2020
Oct 8, 2020 at 7:49 AM UTC
I hate cut grass
It is only a reminder that no matter how hard you shave it down
It just grows back vengeful
The due process only settles with the bag of worms let out
Airing out all the dirt
Making an already tense situation now uncomfortable
Like prickling grass between your toes when you've lost your chanclas
I hate cut grass
Love the smell
But that's besides the point
Jul 20, 2020
Jul 20, 2020 at 5:18 PM UTC
Grackles
Pecking at the lawn.
Pulling out terrified worms
Grass
Still wet from spring
Showers. Bright emerald green
Green
Sunlight hitting the blades
Just right. Backyard lushness
Grief
Already grieving for the
End of summer. Why?
May 4, 2020
May 4, 2020 at 12:07 AM UTC
El Dorado
by Michael R. Burch
It's a fine town, a fine town,
though its alleys recede into shadow;
it's a very fine town for those who are searching
for an El Dorado.
Because the lighting is poor and the streets are bare
and the welfare line is long,
there must be something of value somewhere
to keep us hanging on
to our El Dorado.
Though the children are skinny, their parents are fat
from years of gorging on bleached white bread,
yet neither will leave
because all believe
in the vague things that are said
of El Dorado.
The young men with the outlandish hairstyles
who saunter in and out of the turnstiles
with a song on their lips and an aimless shuffle,
scuffing their shoes, avoiding the bustle,
certainly feel no need to join the crowd
of those who work to earn their bread;
they must know that the rainbow's end
conceals a *** of gold
near El Dorado.
And the painted “actress” who roams the streets,
smiling at every man she meets,
must smile because, after years of running,
no man can match her in cruelty or cunning.
She must see the satire of “defeats”
and “triumphs” on the ambivalent streets
of El Dorado.
Yes, it's a fine town, a very fine town
for those who can leave when they tire
of chasing after rainbows and dreams
and living on nothing but fire.
But for those of us who cling to our dreams
and cannot let them go,
like the sad-eyed ladies who wander the streets
and the junkies high on snow,
the dream has become a reality
—the reality of hope
that grew too strong
not to linger on—
and so this is our home.
We chew the apple, spit it out,
then eat it "just once more."
For this is the big, big apple,
though it is rotten to the core,
and we are its worm
in the night when we squirm
in our El Dorado.
This is an early poem of mine. I believe I wrote the first version during my “Romantic phase” around age 16 or perhaps a bit later. It was definitely written in my teens because it appears in a poetry contest folder that I put together and submitted during my sophomore year in college. Keywords/Tags: El Dorado, big apple, worms, New York City, junkies, streetwalkers, hookers, prostitutes, actors, actresses, hustlers, conmen
He Lived: Excerpts from “Gilgamesh”
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I.
He who visited hell, his country’s foundation,
Was well-versed in mysteries’ unseemly dark places.
He deeply explored many underworld realms
Where he learned of the Deluge and why Death erases.
II.
He built the great ramparts of Uruk-the-Sheepfold
And of holy Eanna. Then weary, alone,
He recorded his thoughts in frail scratchings called “words”:
But words made immortal, once chiseled in stone.
III.
These walls he erected are ever-enduring:
Vast walls where the widows of dead warriors weep.
Stand by them. O, feel their immovable presence!
For no other walls are as strong as this keep’s.
IV.
Come, climb Uruk’s tower on a starless night—
Ascend its steep stairway to escape modern error.
Cross its ancient threshold. You are close to Ishtar,
The Goddess of Ecstasy and of Terror!
V.
Find the cedar box with its hinges of bronze;
Lift the lid of its secrets; remove its dark slate;
Read of the travails of our friend Gilgamesh—
Of his descent into hell and man’s terrible fate!
VI.
Surpassing all kings, heroic in stature,
Wild bull of the mountains, the Goddess his dam
—Bedding no other man; he was her sole rapture—
Who else can claim fame, as he thundered, “I am!”
Enkidu Enters the House of Dust
an original poem by Michael R. Burch
I entered the house of dust and grief.
Where the pale dead weep there is no relief,
for there night descends like a final leaf
to shiver forever, unstirred.
There is no hope left when the tree’s stripped bare,
for the leaf lies forever dormant there
and each man cloaks himself in strange darkness, where
all company’s unheard.
No light’s ever pierced that oppressive night
so men close their eyes on their neighbors’ plight
or stare into darkness, lacking sight ...
each a crippled, blind bat-bird.
Were these not once eagles, gallant men?
Who sits here—pale, wretched and cowering—then?
O, surely they shall, they must rise again,
gaining new wings? “Absurd!
For this is the House of Dust and Grief
where men made of clay, eat clay. Relief
to them’s to become a mere windless leaf,
lying forever unstirred.”
“Anu and Enlil, hear my plea!
Ereshkigal, they all must go free!
Beletseri, dread scribe of this Hell, hear me!”
But all my shrill cries, obscured
by vast eons of dust, at last fell mute
as I took my place in the ash and soot.
Reclamation
an original poem by Michael R. Burch
after Robert Graves, with a nod to Mary Shelley
I have come to the dark side of things
where the bat sings
its evasive radar
and Want is a crooked forefinger
attached to a gelatinous wing.
I have grown animate here, a stitched corpse
hooked to electrodes.
And night
moves upon me—progenitor of life
with its foul breath.
Blind eyes have their second sight
and still are deceived. Now my nature
is softly to moan
as Desire carries me
swooningly across her threshold.
Stone
is less infinite than her crone’s
gargantuan hooked nose, her driveling lips.
I eye her ecstatically—her dowager figure,
and there is something about her that my words transfigure
to a consuming emptiness.
We are at peace
with each other; this is our venture—
swaying, the strings tautening, as tightropes
tauten, as love tightens, constricts
to the first note.
Lyre of our hearts’ pits,
orchestration of nothing, adits
of emptiness! We have come to the last of our hopes,
sweet as congealed blood sweetens for flies.
Need is reborn; love dies.
Keywords/Tags: Epic of Gilgamesh, epic, epical, orient occident, oriental, ancient, ancestors, ancestry, primal
Apr 3, 2020
Apr 3, 2020 at 5:15 AM UTC
acid
dripping
bodies
writhing
worms
crawling
in my lungs
bones
breaking
eyes
shaking
nails
scratching
my flesh
Sep 1, 2019
Sep 1, 2019 at 1:38 PM UTC
I’m tucked between the ruggedness of wired fences and tugging hands
Grasping my heart with hungry fingers ready to rip in shreds
I’m tired of feeling so lost beyond words
By men that love to throw me on the ground with worms.
Apr 30, 2019
Apr 30, 2019 at 1:51 PM UTC
✨
*The grasshoppers and the worms
Birds of a feather
Predators and the preys
And
The dawn chorus
Everyone prays
When the sun starts to rise
Life thrives*
✨
Feb 26, 2019
Feb 26, 2019 at 9:48 PM UTC