You know,
There is no love betwixt spiders,
No sentiment betwixt black widows,
No tenderness,
Arachnids are predators after all,
Given the chance,
They’ll eat one another,
Mandibles like knives in the back,
Harsh words like venom,
Feasting on one another’s vascular core,
The need for self-sustenance trumps all,
It’s every invertebrate for themselves,
Hunting for number one,
And it makes me wonder,
If you take away the eight legs and webs,
Is man any different?
I’ve been thinking,
The globe is a viper pit,
And its inhabitants reptiles,
All of us,
Lizard scales over our eyes,
Those cold eyes and colder hearts,
Like boas do we pressure each other,
Slaves and taskmasters,
We hoard like avaricious dragons,
In caves of plaster and copper,
Stabbing one another like cobra fangs,
Blades in hand and venom on tongues,
Evolution is coming too idly,
Warm blood is a rarity in our nature,
Is it sustainable?
Who can say?
You remember the dinosaurs?
Where are they now?
A lightbulb surges to life,
The realisation was like a bird strike,
The knowledge the bite of a rattlesnake,
An eagle savaging a hare,
A serrated blow from out of sight,
It blindsides me,
It knocks me to the ground,
Stunned by my own inability,
My lack of sight,
Finding talons in my flesh,
I feel the white-hot pain,
And the feathers all around,
The triumphant shriek of a hunter.
The attic of my brain is infested,
A legion of cerebral rats I fear,
Vile little vermin,
Perhaps my mind was ample carrion,
They gnawed on my memories,
My good times,
The smiles and beaches,
Seizing chunks in gory fashion,
With each nibble,
Images began to distort,
A stony tint overlaid the joy,
Stories took dramatic new turns,
I had to act,
I had to chase them out,
Club in hand,
A flood of rodents into the aether,
To avenge the elation already consumed,
To salvage what little remained,
To remember some joy.
I met a prince last night,
Great prince Stolas of Hell,
An avian being on stilted legs,
A humble guise for royalty,
He flew,
Crown and all,
From the pages of the Ars Goetia,
The book of demons,
This was no bitter spirit though,
He meant no harm,
He brought not brimstone,
But knowledge and teaching,
He taught me of herbs and jewels,
Of the stars in the firmament,
Lessons spun in infernal tongue,
And then he was gone,
Like the rustles of charred pages.
If one is hunting demons,
Look no further than the filthy mosquito,
That most hated of creations,
They are vermin on buzzing wings,
Employing their odious bayonets,
Sucking the vitae from all,
Trading it for disease and malady,
A truly foul trade arrangement,
These winged hussars of ill health,
They never sleep,
While man overtly cracks the planet,
They are waging a secret war,
A war on all healthy life.
She was not an artist,
Not in the traditional sense,
But she hated the drab streets,
So she sang in earnest,
Straight from the soul,
Breathed life into them,
There was chroma upon her tongue,
Every colour on her lips,
To make the world beautiful,
Colourful,
She painted butterflies everywhere she went,
Monarchs and stained-glass,
Stencilled in every hue,
As she serenaded the grey,
The town came alive,
Dancing in vivid enamel,
Full of radiant flying insects,
Miniature priests and heroines,
Beautiful,
Colourful.
When they came,
Those sharks in uniform,
I climbed atop my household raft,
Fearing for my life,
They came bearing gifts,
Tokens of handcuffs and stingray barbs,
I see their blue skins and bluer lights,
Circling me,
Stalking me,
Smelling blood in the water,
The curtains are my shield,
With no oar I can only wield a house key,
They want me to give up,
To stop treading water,
They keep using big words like “surrender”,
Screaming “murderer” and “monster”,
But I see their barracuda teeth,
Truncheons and mace,
The front door caves in,
A flash,
The thrashing of water and 9mm rounds.
That humble little beetle,
Oft regarded as vermin,
A shoveler of dung,
But it’s a talisman,
A pearlescent amulet,
The god Khepri on Earth,
An icon of regeneration,
Carved of stone or faience or jasper,
These creatures are the heavenly cycle,
Day to night to sunrise,
Life to death to rebirth,
The inescapable truth,
Indeed,
Even within your funerary casket,
You’ll still find a scarab,
Sewed on to your chest,
Wings splayed,
Waiting for your return in rolled dung.
Daily life is a constant grind,
A never-ending rotation,
An ouroboros,
A snake chewing on its own tail,
Day after day,
Bleeding like venom into the next,
And just like a serpent,
It’s cold and relentless,
Already piercing the flesh of the next day,
A treadmill coated in ichor,
Seeping into our veins and hearts,
The days wear away at us,
And we succumb eventually,
Venom gets its way.
WorldofHarley 