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Nat Lipstadt May 2019
the spring mantra arrives with distinctive citified sparkles

a family of ducklings splash, mimicking young children,
shaking, spraying, squeaking, babies bath bathing,
jumping in and out of a fountain pool
of a tall-storied Manhattan apartment building,
the mother-leader attends them well for she recalls
the untimely end of the babies of last year,
lost to wanderlust on York Avenue,
cars and taxis as instruments of mass murdering,
but new spring is the season of new birth

the Cercis Siliquastrum tree trunk (!) oddly sprouts
unusual pink flowers
well before it’s branches grow up into a fully blossoming tree,
a signed spring time ritual, but since it is a/k/a, the Judas Tree,
we wonder if spring hints of Cerci Lannister’s fate betrayed,
in this, her final May dance, oh, which Judas brother/lover
will bring us a winter fin finale

the temperature control dial busted, the variability too wide,
the youngers are skipping the interregnum season,
going direct to elect shorts and T-shirt, while those who no longer bloom in the semi-warm, recall the wet chill of past evenings,
voting to dress defensively, wearing their aging skepticism
aware that all changes are exact crossing line-defined, wrapped in
medium weight coats, concealing embarrassing gloves in pocket,
decorative silk scarfs for non-decorative purposed,
all betting the under/over the spring is here all-in not yet sighted

the streets are busy, the momentary pleasantries
of warm sky and sun push the apartment dwellers out,
a magnetic force pulls us to the outside to exhale, in order to inhale,
guises manufactured excuses appear, a loaf of bread, a latte necessity,
the children desert happily their wintery confinement,
by pushing their own carriages, containing in their stead,
their lilting accented nannies, excited by their version of spring break

Me? toy shopping for this month brings rashers of birthdays,
more May galorey, singing come Dancer and Prancer, Ian and Isabel, Alex and not-a-baby anymore Wendy, and because the weather so pleasant, cautions ignored, the credit card swiped repeatedly, frequently and joyously, xmas reimagined, another May time ritual, rooted in the September month of *******, of staying warm, staving off winter *******, and winter planting for spring harvesting

children score grand-multiplicities for god made in his place
grand parental substitutes, each with two hands each equal,
so both must be filled with maypole ribbon, brightly colored
toy bags, presents wrapped in paper unicorns and all manner of
sporting *****, as we turn 2 and 6, 7 and who ate 8?

all that my eyes did see when we surfed strolled the streets,
vignettes fell like the spring rains, they, now, from daytime banished,
to after-midnight to do their breast feeding of tulips and weeds,
letting little children grow up snuggling in still over-heated rooms,
naked legs kicking off winter blankety snow remnants while dreaming of springing onwards and forward
into the party of life by inhaling nature’s

nature.
5-3-19  606pm
katie Dec 2015
Cerci Lannister.
Hiding nothing.
T-shirts with no bras.
Disney princesses.
Gay rights.
Doing what I want.
Black rights.
Sunglasses.
Women rights.
Moving out.
Saying what I think.
Breaking up with him.
Human rights.

Middle fingers.

Belief in self.
James R Clobum Jun 2018
They are coming. The airborne winged bevy, the flock, the herd, the horde. Their hideous skin-wings, the revolting ***** of sinew. The cerci come for me, when I try to retire. My torpor perpetually interrupted, never completed. I have not slept in days.

The wicga want to lay their young in me. I’ve seen them do it! To the others!

The ****** spine-tailed hell spawn. I cannot sleep. I want to sleep. They will burrow in my flesh if I do not run. I need to run. I must run.

I hear the clouds, the living far-off black mist. I am warned by their distant revving, their humming. Warming their wings off in the distance. The far-off burn-up, thousands working as one. They are coming. They will find me.

Every night I am conscious at dusk; twilight sentience. I am chased every night until first light.

The swarm; my body their incubator. I am forced. I will sustain their young. The nymphs, the pupae. The larvae.

Ectoparisitoids.

I can hear them. Closer. I run.

Run, trip, run, Run. Run.

Run through this disgusting and hideous rotten silva.

Light fading.

The dark is here now. Murk, gloom, pestilence. This place; iniquity incarnate.

The miasma of decomposition.

The fetor.

This rotting place.

They are closer. The swarm. I do not want their brood!

I trip again. My ankle twists and shatters.

I drag myself, through the slime and decay.

I feel the stings. I am seized.

The burning. The buzzing. The biting.

The paralysis begins at my feet. Creeping through my legs, hips, and torso. I cannot move.

I feel new stings. Eggs injected now. Hundreds.

Pennate *******.

I feel them give me life. Their life. They fill my body with their offspring. My flesh will sustain their young.

Where the ectozoons will grow, consume. My body, a living nursery.

I shut my eyes tight. They force open my lids, many mandibles prying.

I feel the stings. I see them chewing. Everything blurs. I see them crawl in. They push through. They enter my oculi. I feel them fill to burst, their eggs many.

My world goes black.


= = = =


I awake. I feel the warmth of them all. The children in my derma. Hundreds.

Oviparity is nearly complete.

I can barely move, my dermis husked with them all. The young.
I feel my face. The sockets where my eyes used to be, a rind covering both. A stringy membrane tightly seals the unborn. I cannot see. My world is black.

I lie there trying to count, trying to fathom the number of nearly born within me. The many bumps and blisters covering me whole. Every orifice filled with oothecae.

Then I feel. I feel them kick, I feel them poke.

Birth!

I feel my belly split open with life.

They ooze out. My ears begin ringing with their pitter patter. Echoing. Thousands. My skin crawls. Pores sweat the fetid embryonic sap of life. Their life.

They wriggle and wiggle out; hundreds.

Every inch of my body bursts with birth.

My eyes hatch last. The pods split. I feel them. I help birth the spiked young, I pull them from the embryonic mephitic discharge.

The many legged, my anatomy their first meal.

My babies. My children. Eat ‘till you are strong.

My body is your communion.
How did this make you feel?

— The End —