"samsa" poems
Kafka and his Giant Insect
Which Might Be a Cockroach
But Maybe Not
We Could go to Das Schloss and ask Mr. K
An insect woke up one morning and realized
He had been transformed into Gregor Samsa
From a life focused on eating hair and grease
Glue, soup, bread, paper, leather
Sewerage, butter, meat (fresh and decayed)
Makeup, cookies, sugar, toothbrush bristles
Cookies, pizza, flour, tacos, apple pie
Dead bodies, feces, and his own species
He now had to deal with the confusion
The sorrow of being Gregor Samsa
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 4:28 PM UTC
This daily Trial
has transformed
tadpoles to chicken
liver-- a Metamorphosis,
a selection process
most Unnatural.
Darwin's joke,
light humor
to ease our
quest for Waze
into the Castle.
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 7:37 AM UTC
Shadows of a future dancing in the light.
When I look into the darkness of another early night.
How many hours have now met me and passed?
How many days until I finally reach my last?
In a room full of dust I am forgotten waste.
A repulsive disease plaguing my loved ones with distaste.
Little legs can’t take me as far as they might.
I remain in darkness so as not to cause a fright.
Samsa the traveling salesman; a haunting, unfamiliar name.
Samsa the traveling salesman; soon gone before his fame.
Jun 29, 2018
Jun 29, 2018 at 3:46 AM UTC
Errands to run
decisions to make;
clothes to wash:
the endless
trivial particulars
that weigh life down.
Where is my
personal assistant,
my life coach,
my hot French maid?
**** once again
I've woken up
in the wrong life.
- mce
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 1:10 PM UTC
When it comes, your smile is more of a statement
than a question mark. I crack myself dry and
lose the chapstick. I later find it on the floor.
I threw it there in the quick strobe of psychosis.
But where are your words now? You see, since Gregor Samsa
threw himself off a balcony thinking he could fly
after dropping too much LSD, I lost part of my larynx.
I’ve been chain smoking since the cops called.
Don’t blame a bug. No one else knows how to love a roach.
Where is your mirror? Since we all hate confessions
I try not to read Plath, or open my mouth.
I can’t touch myself without breaking a bone because
I’m all glass and deception and Tennessee Williams
was once my sugar daddy, but he drove off and I am cold.
My oven is open. I only speak as it heats up.
What happened to your eyes? My eyes are lost
roaming the streets. They’re cloaked in red wool and
I feel them scratching. I’d get them back but
I have no money left for a taxi let alone
a search party. Something feels too Little Red here.
I am also the wolf. I am also my own shoveled snow.
Are you doing better? I hate wolves as much as mania
and sharp teeth. Send a prayer only if you believe
thoughts count. But sometimes I can’t reach up to ten.
Mail me a letter soaked in your lover’s perfume
so I can smell like purpose while I pretend
I’m not wretched. I’d write back
if I could avoid a paper cut,
but last time I had an
out of body experience
and I can’t moderate
for the life of me.
Feb 24, 2017
Feb 24, 2017 at 5:26 PM UTC