"beetles" poems
Winter is cold-hearted,
Spring is yea and nay,
Autumn is a weathercock
Blown every way:
Summer days for me
When every leaf is on its tree;
When Robin's not a beggar,
And Jenny Wren's a bride,
And larks hang singing, singing, singing,
Over the wheat-fields wide,
And anchored lilies ride,
And the pendulum spider
Swings from side to side,
And blue-black beetles transact business,
And gnats fly in a host,
And furry caterpillars hasten
That no time be lost,
And moths grow fat and thrive,
And ladybirds arrive.
Before green apples blush,
Before green nuts embrown,
Why, one day in the country
Is worth a month in town;
Is worth a day and a year
Of the dusty, musty, lag-last fashion
That days drone elsewhere.
19.4k
Deep in a magic forest, with big old magic trees
And all the magic creatures that live inside of these
There is a magic island, upon a magic lake
And on the island stands a stool, the like no man could make
And on the stool from dawn to dusk, resides a little man
Who spends his days in deeper thought, than any mortal can…
How does he think so many thoughts, well you must realize,
That though the man is small, his head is twice the normal size.
And as for food, well first of all he quite likes eating bugs
Beetles spiders, grass hoppers, slimy snails and salty slugs!
Inside his beard he keeps a hive, so honey he can eat,
And sips the dew from roses, which he grows atop his feet…
And when the night time brings the cold, the old man doesn't care
He simply covers up, with all his long and tangled hair!
Regardless of his oddities, the man is still renowned,
For being quite the wisest man, who never can be found.
Jul 19, 2017
Jul 19, 2017 at 12:43 PM UTC
Drowning in the sea of red
cartridges stuck inside her head
singing to the pigeon man
about all the stars again
how they crunch under her toes
there she goes
She dines by the candlelight
golden beetles lined with blight
in her velvet dressing room
withered flowers in full bloom
Drowning in the sea of red
cartridges stuck inside her head
singing to the pigeon man
about the dawn once again
how the curtain rises low
on last show
Cigarettes in the first row
burning slow
Rustling of the stolen feathers
burning slow
City shining through the smoke
burning slow
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 1:30 PM UTC
you’re a sick, sick person
my little,
old
love.
with eyes like ferocious , angry
beetles, you
chew into me and cut out
tiny,
stinging
holes.
if only you knew i wasn’t invincible,
if only you knew
you were toxic.
the cement is wet when you bash my head
open,
and
the cement is still wet when it
rains.
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 1:04 AM UTC
a black bat
hangs upside down
digesting a fly
his face almost human
a flying Frankenstein
he excretes
puddles of guano
like miniature buttered popcorn
a dark and wavy goulash
gods gift
to beetles and worms
dizzied overheated men look on
to an uproarious variety hour
of song and a high heeled kicks
inspiring
a tempest of throbbing
whisky drenched
folded ***** and cash
trouser trout fish,
undulant
sexed up
tape worms for love
pulse the night
egging on bunny **** pom poms
devout finger puppets of Eros
for
shimmering ****** lipstick twilled vibratos
sequined tassel spinning areolas
and lavish come **** me dance girls
bring down the house in flames
making hearts apostate
clamoring
and melt men like steaming everglades
the bat
hangs from the chandelier
licks his black lips
and looks on to panorama of hieroglyphics
hearing music
a thunderous nonsense
witnessing visions
of
flies, tasty white winged moths
and the thrill of screams
while biting the head off of another bat
in a claret stained red velvet cabaret
Aug 31, 2017
Aug 31, 2017 at 5:09 PM UTC
We dug up the soil today
Thousands of insects rushed out
Centipedes, beetles, spiders
A crumpled grub writhed in the sun
Too weak to do much else
I’ve always hated agriculture
Fingers tearing plant roots
Sap soaking flesh
A neighbour walked past and said ‘looking good’
And it was the saddest thing I’ve heard all year
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 10:02 PM UTC
He speaks the language of flowers
Quietly toiling in his garden
Digging, raking and smoothing soil,
Gently coaxing nature to match his vision.
He knows the bees, spiders, beetles, worms and earwigs
Regarding them as friends.
He follows seasons, moon and stars
As others do people
Enthralled at the changes they bring.
He listens as the birds sing
Watching with joy as
Fledgling take wing.
Jun 24, 2018
Jun 24, 2018 at 10:30 AM UTC
There, she lies on the altar
Almost held the sun she—
almost in her hands
Opened up, a rose-bud chaste
petal by petal by blood, with
a sting, so sweet and sweet, as
sunset reborn a bee; she was
gold and silver and black at once.
Almost held the sun she—
and no wax wings used
Oh, Icarus, love you did a wild sky,
— yourself a light-licked doom
as your father cried,
Your father cried for you.
A veil as simple sour starlight she wore
as wings of wasps as beetles she giggled
Icarus, flew that you
—and with tongue-tied elation too
Icarus,
she rambled on for hours long.
A letter she held in spring kissed hands
—I will wed you to the sun, her father had sworn.
The sun—and a sun he was,
child of the sea, some sword in honey
dipped; now her awaiting.
And blushed she did herself a dawn
The altar, on the altar.
Almost held the sun she—
Swallowed a mayhem for the father's sin.
Icarus, tell me of the plummet.
Tell me of the greens you saw,
of blues, of whites, of the whirling world—
Men go around around her
their soles all ready
to crush lost skulls an empty moor.
Twirling,
the dust, like may have her hair
before the wedding day
Strands and strands, gently styled—
Spears, swords, rubbed to mirrors,
to lakes lifeless
Armors and ships laden with life, with
sails, the fluttering doves;
As the winds dance once more—
as harbors vacated, as waves torn apart for the horde, as move they on— on too the sun— as
She still lies.
Icarus, Icarus, was it the ocean
that cupped its palms, or did the soil cave in
as down into dark's slick throat you slid?
Surely, was soft, the sea's well-loved mouth,
Surely soft or true
She lies on the altar
a trinket glossy on a hoof, a ****** in the bell,
how does one say—
the valley of lilies, she grew it inside.
Spilled out on the stones, they are fed
to the flies.
Almost held the sun she—
Icarus, must you know
You did not sleep a wretched silence
within the womb of war.
No crescent blades you drank down a leaking throat—
She lies on the altar, vanquished for moon
— for metal upon bone
for blood, for blood, for blood.
A father’s green promise—
Seasoned to rust before the king
Icarus, on the altar she lies—
a ripened land far, far away lures her king
to another rosy worship.
Icarus, Icarus,
on the altar
Aug 3, 2021
Aug 3, 2021 at 7:45 AM UTC
Hunting has a noble heritage, for sure
Bringing us together, it forged a species
Keen-eyed, communicative, feared by the fierce
So who am I to begrudge you your sport?
I, too, love wide open skies, tramping over bog and fen,
I even quite like dogs!
I imagine nature might reveal herself to you
In signs jealously guarded from the armchair carnivore.
I can almost reconcile your harsh percussion
With the croak of the raven, the sloshing tide
And the chewing and mooing of cattle.
But the pheasant! For the love of God, the pheasant?
It can hardly be a battle of wits!
I've seen him as he sits, a big, red bullseye
On fences and *****
Startled by every day he survives.
How stirring can it be,
Picking off the ones the cars and lorries never got?
When you carry him home,
Better off dead,
Hang him in your garage for a week
Feeling like Henry VIII,
Cut him down, slit him open and find the crop
Stuffed not with heather shoots and beetles
But with half a pound of store-bought grain
(Generously laced with antibiotics) -
I hope the realisation creeps up
That you may as well have asserted yourself
In the hen coop,
Blasting away at befuddled poultry
And saving yourself a walk.
Nov 24, 2010
Nov 24, 2010 at 1:33 AM UTC
When I was a windy boy and a bit
And the black spit of the chapel fold,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of women),
I tiptoed shy in the gooseberry wood,
The rude owl cried like a tell-tale ***
I skipped in a blush as the big girls rolled
Nine-pin down on donkey's common,
And on seesaw sunday nights I wooed
Whoever I would with my wicked eyes,
The whole of the moon I could love and leave
All the green leaved little weddings' wives
In the coal black bush and let them grieve.
When I was a gusty man and a half
And the black beast of the beetles' pews
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of *******
Not a boy and a bit in the wick-
Dipping moon and drunk as a new dropped calf,
I whistled all night in the twisted flues,
Midwives grew in the midnight ditches,
And the sizzling sheets of the town cried, Quick!-
Whenever I dove in a breast high shoal,
Wherever I ramped in the clover quilts,
Whatsoever I did in the coal-
Black night, I left my quivering prints.
When I was a man you could call a man
And the black cross of the holy house,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of welcome),
Brandy and ripe in my bright, bass prime,
No springtailed tom in the red hot town
With every simmering woman his mouse
But a hillocky bull in the swelter
Of summer come in his great good time
To the sultry, biding herds, I said,
Oh, time enough when the blood runs cold,
And I lie down but to sleep in bed,
For my sulking, skulking, coal black soul!
When I was half the man I was
And serve me right as the preachers warn,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of downfall),
No flailing calf or cat in a flame
Or hickory bull in milky grass
But a black sheep with a crumpled horn,
At last the soul from its foul mousehole
Slunk pouting out when the limp time came;
And I gave my soul a blind, slashed eye,
Gristle and rind, and a roarers' life,
And I shoved it into the coal black sky
To find a woman's soul for a wife.
Now I am a man no more no more
And a black reward for a roaring life,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of strangers),
Tidy and cursed in my dove cooed room
I lie down thin and hear the good bells jaw--
For, oh, my soul found a sunday wife
In the coal black sky and she bore angels!
Harpies around me out of her womb!
Chastity prays for me, piety sings,
Innocence sweetens my last black breath,
Modesty hides my thighs in her wings,
And all the deadly virtues plague my death!
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Some days I wake up with my neck slick
beads of sweat soak the pillowcase,
my hair as though I've been bobbing for apples.
Perhaps I should be.
I'm starving, I think,
for the kind of knowledge which is dubbed
forbidden or shrouded,
hidden.
Written in redwoods,
eyes like nebulae
and sandstone futures.
If I could read the Andes like braille, what revelations would
erupt?
I'm yearning to greet the haunts and beetles once my clock
runs out.
But I lie
awake
and am greeted by
no one.
I'm frozen, now,
with molasses
feet
like running from the Golem in a January dream.
My fingertips leave damp, checked cotton, reaching out with an earnest desperation, and
I'm left sticky, swatting at vapors.
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 4:48 PM UTC
When I was a windy boy and a bit
And the black spit of the chapel fold,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of women),
I tiptoed shy in the gooseberry wood,
The rude owl cried like a tell-tale ***
I skipped in a blush as the big girls rolled
Nine-pin down on donkey's common,
And on seesaw sunday nights I wooed
Whoever I would with my wicked eyes,
The whole of the moon I could love and leave
All the green leaved little weddings' wives
In the coal black bush and let them grieve.
When I was a gusty man and a half
And the black beast of the beetles' pews
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of *******
Not a boy and a bit in the wick-
Dipping moon and drunk as a new dropped calf,
I whistled all night in the twisted flues,
Midwives grew in the midnight ditches,
And the sizzling sheets of the town cried, Quick!-
Whenever I dove in a breast high shoal,
Wherever I ramped in the clover quilts,
Whatsoever I did in the coal-
Black night, I left my quivering prints.
When I was a man you could call a man
And the black cross of the holy house,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of welcome),
Brandy and ripe in my bright, bass prime,
No springtailed tom in the red hot town
With every simmering woman his mouse
But a hillocky bull in the swelter
Of summer come in his great good time
To the sultry, biding herds, I said,
Oh, time enough when the blood runs cold,
And I lie down but to sleep in bed,
For my sulking, skulking, coal black soul!
When I was half the man I was
And serve me right as the preachers warn,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of downfall),
No flailing calf or cat in a flame
Or hickory bull in milky grass
But a black sheep with a crumpled horn,
At last the soul from its foul mousehole
Slunk pouting out when the limp time came;
And I gave my soul a blind, slashed eye,
Gristle and rind, and a roarers' life,
And I shoved it into the coal black sky
To find a woman's soul for a wife.
Now I am a man no more no more
And a black reward for a roaring life,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of strangers),
Tidy and cursed in my dove cooed room
I lie down thin and hear the good bells jaw--
For, oh, my soul found a sunday wife
In the coal black sky and she bore angels!
Harpies around me out of her womb!
Chastity prays for me, piety sings,
Innocence sweetens my last black breath,
Modesty hides my thighs in her wings,
And all the deadly virtues plague my death!
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Once a dream did weave a shade,
O’er my Angel-guarded bed.
That an Emmet lost it’s way
Where on grass methought I lay.
Troubled wildered and forlorn
Dark benighted travel-worn,
Over many a tangled spray,
All heart-broke I heard her say.
O my children! do they cry,
Do they hear their father sigh.
Now they look abroad to see,
Now return and weep for me.
Pitying I dropp’d a tear;
But I saw a glow-worm near:
Who replied. What wailing wight
Calls the watchman of the night.
I am set to light the ground,
While the beetle goes his round:
Follow now the beetles hum,
Little wanderer hie thee home.
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There are beetles on my skin
Attacking my bark
With pincers sharp
-trying to get in
And as they cover me
Head to toe in a blanket of living death
They tickle in bitter giggles
At my senses, set ablaze
By their exo-skeletal steps
I do not build a scream
For the sound would die out in between
The sheet of beetles
And my trodden lips
Instead I lie still
Commanding them with my negligence
Fusing with their fear-mongering
They take my shape; I don’t take theirs
I am the alpha insect
The form of their nature
And now I stand
In beetled armor
A figure against the sun
My shadow raining over the undergrowth
Reigning over the under.
In this symbiosis we travel
Across valley and valley
Coleoptera-covered Rand McNally
Covering the earth, showing
The dominance of man
The man the man
He who holds the plan
In the palm of his life-colored hand
I am he
The guardian of land and sea
Infected with a voice-in-hand
Who writes eternity
Whose pen is the land filled with ink of the sea
And with beetles of lead
I harmonize
That between myself
And quaking skies
As the world shakes in its roots
During a spacequake
That bends our atoms like dried glue
But then I am not alone
And as I rest on grass of gold
The heroes step forth, dressed in animals
In a dark, ****** harmony
That is the nature of our home, our Terra
The brute beauty in black void
Swimming through time like a turtle
On which the souls of man rest
On golden grass
Our spherical nest
And our evils are justified
By the good of our pursuit of beauty
Though selfish maybe
Though hellish for he
That swims on land
But drowns as he walks the sea
We are multitudes.
We are Gaia, we are the mother tree
The ****** bliss of humanity
Dark and light, both are we.
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 8:59 AM UTC
I have a Gumbie Cat in mind, her name is Jennyanydots;
Her coat is of the tabby kind, with tiger stripes and leopard spots.
All day she sits upon the stair or on the steps or on the mat;
She sits and sits and sits and sits—and that’s what makes a Gumbie Cat!
But when the day’s hustle and bustle is done,
Then the Gumbie Cat’s work is but hardly begun.
And when all the family’s in bed and asleep,
She tucks up her skirts to the basement to creep.
She is deeply concerned with the ways of the mice—
Their behaviour’s not good and their manners not nice;
So when she has got them lined up on the matting,
She teachs them music, crocheting and tatting.
I have a Gumbie Cat in mind, her name is Jennyanydots;
Her equal would be hard to find, she likes the warm and sunny spots.
All day she sits beside the hearth or on the bed or on my hat:
She sits and sits and sits and sits—and that’s what makes a Gumbie Cat!
But when the day’s hustle and bustle is done,
Then the Gumbie Cat’s work is but hardly begun.
As she finds that the mice will not ever keep quiet,
She is sure it is due to irregular diet;
And believing that nothing is done without trying,
She sets right to work with her baking and frying.
She makes them a mouse—cake of bread and dried peas,
And a beautiful fry of lean bacon and cheese.
I have a Gumbie Cat in mind, her name is Jennyanydots;
The curtain-cord she likes to wind, and tie it into sailor-knots.
She sits upon the window-sill, or anything that’s smooth and flat:
She sits and sits and sits and sits—and that’s what makes a Gumbie Cat!
But when the day’s hustle and bustle is done,
Then the Gumbie Cat’s work is but hardly begun.
She thinks that the cockroaches just need employment
To prevent them from idle and wanton destroyment.
So she’s formed, from that lot of disorderly louts,
A troop of well-disciplined helpful boy-scouts,
With a purpose in life and a good deed to do—
And she’s even created a Beetles’ Tattoo.
So for Old Gumbie Cats let us now give three cheers—
On whom well-ordered households depend, it appears.
4.2k
I looked inside her head
Thought I'd see carousels, glitter *****
Unicorns juggling golden orbs
Glinting diamonds, chandeliered halls
But there was only sawdust, bits of straw
Knotted string, plasticene and beetles wings
Expectation is a foolish thing
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 7:15 AM UTC
When I think of happiness
I think of a vintage VW beetle.
Yellow.
Not to drive
but put somewhere I can see
and feel good about at times.
Yet, I was happy once
And I thought it was heaven
I was on the side where the grass was greener.
It was greener indeed.
@mosquitoism
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 12:36 PM UTC
simple reminders:
beach towels,
mustaches,
grilled vegetables
beetles,
time.
Jul 6, 2010
Jul 6, 2010 at 10:54 PM UTC
mr moonlight
mr nowhere
maxwell edison
mr jones
dr robert
sgt pepper
mr kite, bb king
edgar allen poe
walter raleigh
mat busby
the hendersons
and maggie mae
mr mustard
captain marvel
rita lucy jojo
vera chuck and dave
mother nature
polethene pam
mr heath doris day
and buffalo bill
loretta martin
**** sadie
hey jude eggman
my michelle
rigby and pilchard
or elenor and semolina
took father mckenzie
too see a dancing horse
henry his name was
rocky raccoon was there
prudence rode elephant
to the i me mine waltz
---
There gonna crucify me
the way things go
christ it aint easy
the next day dont know
you know the walrus was paul man
johns bird can sing
george was a genie
ringo wore a ring
but paul is dead now
george stole his soul
john is alive though
ringos in a hole
her royal highness the tax man
commit the perfect crime
she asked for more
with a belly full of wine
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 12:13 PM UTC
This forest shares its secrets with the wind,
Its whispered acorns; deeply buried prayers.
Where ferns glow green and stretch out spongy limbs,
And lichened rocks are holy altar stairs.
Black beetles genuflect and flash their shells.
Moth’s tattered wings reach out to supplicate.
The breath within the soil gently swells,
And lifts up cantillations to the day.
A tree trunk lays itself in feathered moss,
While rings of ivy lash it to the ground.
The ancient Oak knew nothing of it’s loss,
And wears the vines as Hera wears her crown.
I knew all this when I was still a child,
When God still showed His nature in the wild.
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 2:33 PM UTC
In your place,
I planted a golden shower.
On the southern border
Of a dilapidated, porous house.
When it rains,
Seeds sprout in the fields.
When the bugle sounds,
The dead come alive.
In your place,
I planted a golden shower.
I used leaves that have decayed
More than the usual
As manure.
I took handfuls of the sand,
That was measured out
For construction of the house,
And spread over its base,
Without any measure.
I diverted the rain,
That was flowing away lazily,
To its base.
******* trembled
As love swelled up within.
When it rains,
Seeds sprout in the fields.
When the bugle sounds,
The dead come alive.
In your place,
I planted a golden shower.
I kissed every leaf,
Without anyone seeing it.
Its veins looked like yours,
When I read them gently.
And when the eyes welled up
I made a ridge under them
With my soiled hands.
When it rains,
Seeds sprout in the fields.
When the bugle sounds,
The dead come alive.
In your place,
I planted a golden shower.
I will nurture it with love.
I will fight with ants and beetles
And even butterflies.
If it ever droops,
I will pamper it with sweet talks
And pet names uttered in its ear.
When it rains,
Seeds sprout in the fields.
When the bugle sounds,
The dead come alive.
In your place,
I planted a golden shower.
I will stand guard to it
In rain and shine.
I will tattoo on my palm
Its green, branches and leaves.
When it rains,
Seeds sprout in the fields.
When the bugle sounds,
The dead come alive.
In your place,
I planted a golden shower.
Tears
Spittle
*****
I will pour out the soul of life
Just for it.
When it rains,
Seeds sprout in the fields.
When the bugle sounds,
The dead come alive.
In your place,
I planted a golden shower.
In nights, when I really lose it,
I will hug it and cry my heart out.
I will shower it with kisses,
Drenched with tears and spittle.
I will lie down on its lap,
When the eleven bells crumble.
And when I feel naughtier
I will close my eyes
Get inside it
And hide in there.
When it rains,
Seeds sprout in the fields.
When the bugle sounds,
The dead come alive.
In your place,
I planted a golden shower.
One day,
It will flower.
And sing aloud, yellow yellow yellow.
The wind, birds and all creepers around
Will take up that song.
When it rains,
Seeds sprout in the fields.
When the bugle sounds,
The dead come alive.
In your place,
I planted a golden shower.
One day.
***
One day
I will open my day
With its sight
And fade away to next life.
It will wait for me
Till the next life.
***
‘ When it rains,
Seeds sprout in the fields.
When the bugle sounds,
The dead come alive.’
A requiem sung at funeral of Christians.
Apr 12, 2019
Apr 12, 2019 at 10:31 AM UTC
A Zippo lighter with a smoker's cough,
propositions the ladybug
clinging to a flannel pocket,
You can always trust a tealight
to warm the neglected beetles,
that cling to your chest.
this Ritual of the staring contest.
attention behind the curtain:
When You blink at the Rorschach shadows
tell me, they are not mailboxes.
The spirits linger; we stumble into entanglement
birch trees weaving
baskets from our branches
I'm known to cave on integrity, for the taste of freckles,
flickering tealights in the hearthstone, with a smokers cough.
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 3:08 AM UTC
She gives him his eyes, she found them
Among some rubble, among some beetles
He gives her her skin
He just seemed to pull it down out of the air and lay it over her
She weeps with fearfulness and astonishment
She has found his hands for him, and fitted them freshly at the wrists
They are amazed at themselves, they go feeling all over her
He has assembled her spine, he cleaned each piece carefully
And sets them in perfect order
A superhuman puzzle but he is inspired
She leans back twisting this way and that, using it and laughing
Incredulous
Now she has brought his feet, she is connecting them
So that his whole body lights up
And he has fashioned her new hips
With all fittings complete and with newly wound coils, all shiningly oiled
He is polishing every part, he himself can hardly believe it
They keep taking each other to the sun, they find they can easily
To test each new thing at each new step
And now she smoothes over him the plates of his skull
So that the joints are invisible
And now he connects her throat, her ******* and the pit of her stomach
With a single wire
She gives him his teeth, tying the the roots to the centrepin of his body
He sets the little circlets on her fingertips
She stiches his body here and there with steely purple silk
He oils the delicate cogs of her mouth
She inlays with deep cut scrolls the nape of his neck
He sinks into place the inside of her thighs
So, gasping with joy, with cries of wonderment
Like two gods of mud
Sprawling in the dirt, but with infinite care
They bring each other to perfection.
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1128
These are the Nights that Beetles love—
From Eminence remote
Drives ponderous perpendicular
His figure intimate
The terror of the Children
The merriment of men
Depositing his Thunder
He hoists abroad again—
A Bomb upon the Ceiling
Is an improving thing—
It keeps the nerves progressive
Conjecture flourishing—
Too dear the Summer evening
Without discreet alarm—
Supplied by Entomology
With its remaining charm—
3.7k
The cats get the Cradle
the beetles get the bread
and the cherry-cheeked children,
the children
all are dead
The world is growing smaller
the Sun is getting hotter
it is all a fault of ours
a fault of ours so faulty
falling gently, screaming, kicking
to the ground
so we give
The cats the Cradle
the beetles get the Bread
and the cherry-cheeked children,
the children
all are dead
Men are exploding
children are smoking–
smoking needles
eating beetles
black and pink
Beatles
The Beatles all are dead
not the legend, just the passion
so instead we give
The cats the Cradle
and the beetles to the bread
and the cherry-cheeked children
the children
all are dead
because the world
turned upside-down
all together, upside down
sons in shoe-heels
lipstick jungles
deep violet secrets
girls in pants
panting
running from understanding caring
claiming you are open-minded
too open-minded to mind
the option
of a closed mind
so instead,
**** the trees for
the cat’s cradle
feed the beetles to the bread
since all the cherry-cheeked children
and their childhood:
all dead.
Dec 31, 2010
Dec 31, 2010 at 9:27 PM UTC