"bedbug" poems - Hello Poetry

Dusk! With a creepy, tingling sensation you hear the fluttering of leathery wings! Bats! Glowing red eyes and glistening fangs, These unspeakable giant bugs drop into view.* Fibrous wings furred like a moth, Big ears are just a membranous extension of antennae. Flying in search of a flower’s pollen laden froth, Silent except for the hum and squeak of echolocation. Trap bats in attics, butterflies in nets. No rabies feared, no bedbug bites to itch. Clawed feet ****** and grab like praying mantis pincers; Bloated stomach slopes like a pudgy beetle. Jaws manipulate like an ant, excise like scissors; Soft hair rustles like a wooly caterpillar. They live in darkness, centipedes do too, Come out at night like cockroaches tend to. Skittering through the night like daddy long-legs, Noses snubbed like bumble bee faces. Wind turbines endanger bats, Like fans endanger lightning bugs. Only one percent of bats are vampiric, Like only a small percentage of spiders are poisonous. Dawn! With a creepy, tingling sensation you hear the fluttering of leathery wings! Bats! Bats are bugs, aren’t they?

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May 4, 2010

May 4, 2010 at 5:04 PM UTC

grace-gwendolyn-henry

Bats Aren’t Bugs!

Dusk! With a creepy, tingling sensation you hear the fluttering of leathery wings! Bats! Glowing red eyes and glistening fangs, These unspeakable giant bugs drop into view.* Fibrous wings furred like a moth, Big ears are just a membranous extension of antennae. Flying in search of a flower’s pollen laden froth, Silent except for the hum and squeak of echolocation. Trap bats in attics, butterflies in nets. No rabies feared, no bedbug bites to itch. Clawed feet ****** and grab like praying mantis pincers; Bloated stomach slopes like a pudgy beetle. Jaws manipulate like an ant, excise like scissors; Soft hair rustles like a wooly caterpillar. They live in darkness, centipedes do too, Come out at night like cockroaches tend to. Skittering through the night like daddy long-legs, Noses snubbed like bumble bee faces. Wind turbines endanger bats, Like fans endanger lightning bugs. Only one percent of bats are vampiric, Like only a small percentage of spiders are poisonous. Dawn! With a creepy, tingling sensation you hear the fluttering of leathery wings! Bats! Bats are bugs, aren’t they?

27

Put on a clean shirt before you die, some Russian said. Nothing with drool, please, no egg spots, no blood, no sweat, no ***** You want me clean, God, so I'll try to comply. The hat I was married in, will it do? White, broad, fake flowers in a tiny array. It's old-fashioned, as stylish as a bedbug, but is suits to die in something nostalgic. And I'll take my painting shirt washed over and over of course spotted with every yellow kitchen I've painted. God, you don't mind if I bring all my kitchens? They hold the family laughter and the soup. For a bra (need we mention it?), the padded black one that my lover demeaned when I took it off. He said, "Where'd it all go?" And I'll take the maternity skirt of my ninth month, a window for the love-belly that let each baby pop out like and apple, the water breaking in the restaurant, making a noisy house I'd like to die in. For underpants I'll pick white cotton, the briefs of my childhood, for it was my mother's dictum that nice girls wore only white cotton. If my mother had lived to see it she would have put a WANTED sign up in the post office for the black, the red, the blue I've worn. Still, it would be perfectly fine with me to die like a nice girl smelling of Clorox and Duz. Being sixteen-in-the-pants I would die full of questions.

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2.9k

Anne Sexton

Clothes

Put on a clean shirt before you die, some Russian said. Nothing with drool, please, no egg spots, no blood, no sweat, no ***** You want me clean, God, so I'll try to comply. The hat I was married in, will it do? White, broad, fake flowers in a tiny array. It's old-fashioned, as stylish as a bedbug, but is suits to die in something nostalgic. And I'll take my painting shirt washed over and over of course spotted with every yellow kitchen I've painted. God, you don't mind if I bring all my kitchens? They hold the family laughter and the soup. For a bra (need we mention it?), the padded black one that my lover demeaned when I took it off. He said, "Where'd it all go?" And I'll take the maternity skirt of my ninth month, a window for the love-belly that let each baby pop out like and apple, the water breaking in the restaurant, making a noisy house I'd like to die in. For underpants I'll pick white cotton, the briefs of my childhood, for it was my mother's dictum that nice girls wore only white cotton. If my mother had lived to see it she would have put a WANTED sign up in the post office for the black, the red, the blue I've worn. Still, it would be perfectly fine with me to die like a nice girl smelling of Clorox and Duz. Being sixteen-in-the-pants I would die full of questions.

41

The lights were still on As I lifted myself from The air mattress To check my back For bedbug bites I noticed a young roach In the sink He scattered quickly Then stopped Staring As if to dare me To try and **** him He was the prideful matador And I the swollen eyed Stumbling bull It was life and death I tried to smack him With a water bottle But he ran and hid behind a pipe So I took a bottle of aftershave Tried to drown the ******* In a refreshing burning winterfresh But he was untouched by the splash Then he scattered across the wall I ran and grabbed the worst book In my collection The premier book of major poets, 1970 They printed Simon and Garfunkel In there I tried to smash the cunning cockroach But my fingers touched the Smashed corpse Of a previous conquest I quickly threw the book in disgust And wished it was the roaches Wife or mother Lying dead Smashed by an awful publication He ran quickly Laughing at my frustration Proud Then he settled in a hole Under the edge of the counter He was the victor He raised his sword Toward the sun And stabbed me in the heart I fell onto the air mattress Drooling The young roach returned to his nest Proud He found the fattest female Flipped her over With his filthy fluttering legs He tore open her thorax Then inserted his roach genitalia Into the wound Inseminating her And assuring his legacy While I slept Alone

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Aug 22, 2015

Aug 22, 2015 at 1:11 AM UTC

ray-suarez

The 3 AM War Against A Young Cockroach

The lights were still on As I lifted myself from The air mattress To check my back For bedbug bites I noticed a young roach In the sink He scattered quickly Then stopped Staring As if to dare me To try and **** him He was the prideful matador And I the swollen eyed Stumbling bull It was life and death I tried to smack him With a water bottle But he ran and hid behind a pipe So I took a bottle of aftershave Tried to drown the ******* In a refreshing burning winterfresh But he was untouched by the splash Then he scattered across the wall I ran and grabbed the worst book In my collection The premier book of major poets, 1970 They printed Simon and Garfunkel In there I tried to smash the cunning cockroach But my fingers touched the Smashed corpse Of a previous conquest I quickly threw the book in disgust And wished it was the roaches Wife or mother Lying dead Smashed by an awful publication He ran quickly Laughing at my frustration Proud Then he settled in a hole Under the edge of the counter He was the victor He raised his sword Toward the sun And stabbed me in the heart I fell onto the air mattress Drooling The young roach returned to his nest Proud He found the fattest female Flipped her over With his filthy fluttering legs He tore open her thorax Then inserted his roach genitalia Into the wound Inseminating her And assuring his legacy While I slept Alone

63

It is a bedbug. It bites, not bids. less or more, it bites. On the train or in a car, on a chair or a desk. In the house or on a farm In Africa, we were friends. In Europe, we were strange. In Africa, there is conflict. In Europe, there is bedbug. So if Africa needs conflicticides, and Europe needs insecticides.

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Oct 5, 2023

Oct 5, 2023 at 8:56 AM UTC

Safana

The bedbug

It is a bedbug. It bites, not bids. less or more, it bites. On the train or in a car, on a chair or a desk. In the house or on a farm In Africa, we were friends. In Europe, we were strange. In Africa, there is conflict. In Europe, there is bedbug. So if Africa needs conflicticides, and Europe needs insecticides.

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