Cult Of Worms

Throughout this thousand year war,
Numberless threads have been severed,
Both political and carotid,
Every fall gives rise to a cult,
A coven of worms,
A morbid congregation drawn together,
Each elongated creature both priest and disciple,

Each slain prince or pauper,
Becomes a temple of writhing masses,
Another prone parish of rot,
Erected on putrescent pillars,
Ribcages holding up their necrotic chapels,
Flesh is chewed away in ritual feasts,
Marrow supped like wine from bone,

These cultists are no fiends though,
It’s simply the way of the world,
Entropy and taxes being the only certainties,
Even the most triumphant and grand of us,
Shall be naught but a temple for the worms,
Little more than grisly alms,
Meat for the cult.

Chitin Love

When we give ourselves to someone,
It’s like a beetle opening its carapace,
Exposing the soft underside,
The real you,
A pumping heart of emotions,
Passion coalescing with vulnerability,
The side of you that is more mammal than insect,
No more avoided gazes and nervous hands,

But nature is vicious,
It can all go wrong in a flash,
Human nature is an avian to your aphid love,
Like moths our wings can be plucked,
And like insects we can be squashed,
Under foot or in palm,
All that remains is cracked chitin,
And the fluid extract of a heart once loved.

Phantasmagoria

As I rise from my crypt,
I feel as if some presence rises with me,
An ethereal force,
Like my dreams have pierced forth from my mind,
Transmogrifying before my sleepy eyes,

Butterflies in every shade,
Once greyscale,
Then shifting to each and every colour in turn,
Phantasms in flight,
Fluttering around the room in lyrical patterns,

The projections grow more maddening,
Hypnotising my cortices,
Spelling out words that seem gibberish,
Images of make-believe realms,
Visual patterns put my brain through a blender,

Was any of this real?
Horror and euphoria and mystique brewed together,
Who knows?
But only the sunrise did quell the mania,
And weld my brain back together again.

Wildebeest And Wood Lice

We are not dire wolves,
We do not run in packs,
We’re not predators,
We are wildebeest,
We run in herds,
We are fodder,
Fearful of the brush all around,
Unsafe in our carnivorous habitat,

And like wood lice,
We retreat to our homely crevices,
Unsafe in our forms of chitin,
At the whiff of any danger,
Scurrying away from the intrusive light,
Decrying the suns ambush,
To this world we are prey,
We are wildebeest and wood lice.

The Gnome And The Fly

The fly on the wall left for a jaunt,
Out of the window,
Across a lawn laid in neglect,
There he met his companion the gnome,
In flaxen shirt and inert gaze,
Fishing rod and gormless grin,
The fly said to the gnome,

“Between us we see everything,
I within the house and you without,
Sins within this hovel and besides,
I’ve seen the married souls lay with strangers,
You’ve seen needles and shady deals alfresco,
I’ve smelt the scent of flesh under floorboards,
You’ve seen where the bodies are buried under turf,
Together we could rule this place”,

In response the gnome looked ever on,
Unimpressed,
The fly’s proposed blackmail not to his liking,
His painted eyes still staring wide-eyed,
The fly seethed at the refusal,
Zooming back to the house in a rage,
He would bring ruin to the occupants elseways.

Centipede

From the brush I rise,
Segmented fury,
Mandibles bared,
All instinct and hunger,
I am predatory,
Make no mistake,

I hunger,
My venom hungers,
My limbs long to rip and tear,
Rodents and avians and insects,
Asunder a hundred ways,
All are meant for these cold eyes,

You felt my approach,
Tingles up your spine,
Muted tittering in the greenery,
A hundred needles across your foot,
Was that me there?
Or am I already on your shoulder?

Mouths Of Insects

There are some out there who spew not speak,
Those whose throats writhe skittishly with a million little creatures,
Not words,
Just torrents of insects,
A plague of locusts in vowels and tones,
Ravaging the target of their utterances,

From a maw liveried in spiders web,
Come wasps and hornets with malicious style,
Accusations and threats on wings,
Ants and termites boring into your ears,
You feebly bat at them with refuting arguments,
Only to be buffeted anew at greater buzzing sonority,

These peoplr do not intend to debate,
Only to feed upon your angst,
Like a rural field stripped bare,
They do not wish to share wisdom,
But to feast upon you with verbal mandibles,
To feed the vermin host of their tongues.

The Mayfly Man

Let me tell you a cautionary tale,
Of a man short-lived yet fulfilled,
Born anew each time the sun rears its head,
Grown grey and spent as the dusk whispers,
He lives for a day,
An instant,
A singular moment,

Full of life in the morn,
He lives that day to its extent,
Full of passion as the sun sits highest,
Enjoying every brush of the cheek and every fruit,
Though still aches for more as the sun sets,
Full of qualms come the eve,
As the days coffin cracks open,

Like winged insects we buzz momentarily across the world,
Only to die shortly thereafter,
We don’t exist for long,
You see my friends,
The mayfly man is all of us,
Spend each day like the humble mayfly,
Fly free and celebrate the day as your last,

After all it could be.

Butterflies

A young man took a trail through nature,
To purge the city from his veins,
Grown weary of the smog,
He sits reclined upon this fae meadow,
Amidst fields of crimson and violet,
Like a therapists couch in the sticks,

Here be butterflies,
Like chitinous pixies,
Dancing upon stained-glass wings,
Ballet upon the soft gales of the valley,
Playing gaily betwixt this floral procession,
Wining and dining with the nectar of tulips,

One lands upon his finger,
Its wings gently flitting in the sun,
Embodying a sorcery of veldt,
Casting a spell of placidity upon his soul,
The young man finally exhales,
There is so much magic in nature.

Hive Of Elites

I know of a place,
Supposedly above us all,
A hive of powerful insects,
Within a gothic revival cathedral of the politik,
A nest of invertebrates in fancy suits,
Exoskeletons with party badges,

They titter to each other with slavering mouthparts,
Which service for the poor do they consume next?
Which welfare element to scavenge from?
Arguments made in clicks and buzzing,
Elected and opposition bicker in a childish game,
One that the electorate lose every time,

The hive walls writhe as the swarms debate,
Their original purpose drowned,
Feasted upon by mandibles myriad,
Now the numbers must only rise,
Compound eyes scanning statistic analyses,
Claws rubbing together in hunger,

This infestation is beyond purging,
You voted for this,
This elitist hive of twisted democracy,
Allegiance to the party colony is all to these villains,
The people are simply a source of sustenance,
I fear they too can be the only effective insecticide,

Raise your voices,
Don’t fall prey.