Cardboard Grey Oct 2012

There is sickness.
Subtle insecurity in the tallest tree.
Pride in roots that try
and wont break
Stabbed propped up
behind the kindest
smile trying the hardest.
Men leaving nothing
in death but souls.
Cliche communications
speaking in color.
Gray paths never make sense.
And death is
but not without life.
There is sickness.
Curving straight lines
trying to make
a point.

PJ Poesy Jan 2016

Worm eats through to penetrate.
Trespasses, what dirty deeds?
What ichor is this to venerate?
How dare eat, how dare have needs?

Godly viral load unbeatable,
no t-cell left to count.
Wriggling in puddle inconceivable,
piss upon this crucified mount.

Lazarus, risen from the dead,
no dog now licks your wounds.
Lepers now banshees are instead
social workers which we swoon.

And the Roman laws and judges
continue blame, hand down sentence,
as degenerative generation smudges
out from existence, HIV+ penance.

Dissected and pinned against wall,
this writhing experiment oozes.
Whilst priests and politicians naw,
compassion and AIDS funding loses.

We writhe. Yet, AIDS survives. Will any of us?
Sean Tierney Jun 2016

rainy days have always
brought me to the surface

I suppose I
move through the world
like a worm
lodged in the tire tread
of a child's bicycle

another major re-write for the ol' manuscript...

Lo! ’tis a gala night
  Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
  In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
  A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
  The music of the spheres.

Mimes, in the form of God on high,
  Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly—
  Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
  That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
  Invisible Wo!

That motley drama—oh, be sure
  It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore,
  By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
  To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
  And Horror the soul of the plot.

But see, amid the mimic rout
  A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
  The scenic solitude!
It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs
  The mimes become its food,
And the angels sob at vermin fangs
  In human gore imbued.

Out—out are the lights—out all!
  And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
  Comes down with the rush of a storm,
And the angels, all pallid and wan,
  Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”
  And its hero the Conqueror Worm.

Matthew Harlovic Mar 2014

The early bird croons
seducing the morning worm.
Mother cries softly.

© Matthew Harlovic

st64 Dec 2013

the farewell of the magical-masque
           the dance of the whirlwind
           the twist in valediction
a pantomime of comedy dripping in life’s heat, its tragedy blooms forlorn
silently the mountain-ranges stare
the sky-face won’t relent and contemplates the open-disease in homes

disguised as simple relief – rescue lies cooing in the palm
     crumbling in blue-ash beside your grinding-palate
     you reach for pen and paper to appease an entity unknown
shrouded in grey, no scavenger can touch the head of one
who carries blessings in the scabbard – the present worthy of now

stairs are slippery, fish are mouthing, anger grows
     symbols hop along outrageous, so stylised and signs come in decisive
     all at once, almost
there is some purchase in the widening-valley
when climbing-feet need to rest on your narrow angular-will
and wait.. (before them chips rain down)
until the merry-turnstile comes in view

the worm-wheel goes blank a while
and out tunes a dastard-and-devilish prank, courtesy of blunted-fate
sacred-fillies get hacked at by small silver things and they lie slaughtered on stark-plains
and the orb dips in reverse this time
a sooty-traveller from the western-flank
               glances out at massive-figures at supine-rest
               gets startled by the rude rum-fire
eyes slit and pates distort in hostile-fever
at the starling-ingénue in mock-fatigues and fake-epaulettes
but cheering up with wry-humour makes your feet
           a touch too slow to react in time
           and the halberd comes crashing down
well, the last thought you hold before your next one
is how utterly beautiful she looked at the station
long, black hair – silky-shining in your eyes and gay-dancing in the wind
when she passed you all her sweet-love from eyes so wet and smile so quiet
and selected dried-fruit in redolent-parcel
                                   a sealed pelt-skin of unmixed-whiskey
along with fresh-baked raisin-bread in cotton-cloth
                    coarse-sliced and buttered so generous
a semi-rusted dry-tin rattling its bounty of macaroons through that smudgy, dirty window
what sweet-victuals to keep alive . . .

man, that journey is a long one!

                             (I’M STANDING HERE        oh, you just know I am here

AND YES -- I’M WATCHING YOU                        
                                                                ­               and no use looking round now..
                                                                ­               or begging a purty-release
                                  oh easy, boy.. EASY!!)                                                          ­                            

once more, the worm wriggles in microbial-distaste
and the season’s wheel comes dangerously close to being undone
and seconds later, cogs fly hard in every fool’s direction
and luckily.. you catch some in your face.. mouth agape
        crushing your tongue
        splintering all your dental-treasure
        smashing half your reason
no time for moaning.. or eroded-regret.. or even to feel your lips in ribbons
for, when they turn their backs, you will know
what to do..

because you’ve picked some pearls the hard-way..
that atonement could well appear in spells
of any shape
or size

not so?

S T, 30 dec 2013

beautiful in the mountains.. Jupiter enjoys the odd (but needed) breeze along with sweetness of Nature’s sounds  :)

sub-entry: ten times

you get ten times to refract your pain
mind your head now
the ceiling’s low
the parchment’s dry
and then some..

wait a little while.. it all comes round :)
Elise Marie Jan 2012

The worm he dances swiftly up the ankle of my bones
He crests the waves of belt buckles and hips as smooth as stones
One wiggle closer to the prize
Of brainpan thoughts and wandering eyes
He brings with him a quaint disease
It breathes a wind that buckles knees
The knees that kept me standing, kept my pupils locked in line
Now this black worm has edged into the highway of my spine
The spiral steps and collar bone, a temporary hurdle
Luckily his slippery frame were made for such a battle
So up he goes to dive into my choppy, brainy sea
And loose the anchor off his ship, infecting happily

Dorothy A Nov 2009

cant't you stand a little rain?
A puddle here,
a puddle there
You squirm so helplessly,
desperately seeking out higher ground,
hurriedly scurrying for shelter,
but stuck in a rut
for want of dry land

Some lay before you,
fully defeated,
a mass exodus of worm refugees
The blazing sun
shall work against you,
to parch the ground below
How cruel does this world
seem towards you
when all you want is to stay alive?
To survive,
to thrive,
for one more day

Sean Winslow May 2010

We feel it.
The low tenor and shimmering soprano
it fills us with a teasing rhythm


Amidst the warmth of a shallow breeze
we dance
Kindled by a roseate glimmer of fading fire
we writhe

Impassioned with intent we make our way
from our warm bed in the grass
to climb together to alpine heights
nestled where we can best reach
The edge, the rim through which gods create
that dark abyss which sustains us

With an abrupt rush, we are lifted and consumed
There, the briefest glimmer of sparkling white
and we fall,
pushed by muscular cadence
Plunge. Float...
And finally pulled
Here we move,
Rostellum pierce the pitch
Then feverishly,
We rook our God

I intend this piece to be open to interpretation. This initially grew from an attempt to go beyond my comfort zone. I was provided key words that must be used to get credit for the assignment. From this I imagined that the reader would take the perspective of (one or many) tapeworm grub on their (its) journey (one I had imagined to be more a sacred pilgrimage) to a host in the hopes of being consumed.

Copyright ©2010-2013 Sean Winslow All Rights Reserved
JDK May 2017

Your alternate universe is full of plot* holes,
but at least you're the star.

Jam Rock Feb 2013

Dont eat the worm
no matter how bad that little fucker squirms
it'll make your gut turn
and your eyes swell
a living hell
living at the bottom of the tequilla bottle.

Poor little worm
In the earth
Feeling like
You have no worth

Used for bait
When we fish
Or for a bird
A tasty dish

Crossing the sidewalk
To get to your spot
You didn't make it
It was too hot

Looking like
You were fried
I'm sorry
That you died

Do you have a family
That you leave
Tiny worm children
That will grieve

May your life in heaven
Be everlasting
Play in the soil
Make a casting

Know that you
Had some worth
You were tending
To Mother Earth

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