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.

My Pet Spider

I have an unusual companion,
She found her way to my den,
My fascination led me to let her stay,
She made her place in a dark corner,
A neat unassuming spot by a rafter,
Her prescence acts as sedative,
She silently watchs and keeps vigil,

Moths and flies are fodder,
Easily falling into her showy web,
The lamplight draws them in,
Their feeble minds drawn into our ploy,
Artwork becomes artifice,
A cradle becomes a pitfall,
She feasts on bodies as I sip full-bodied amber,

Powerful fangs and a few too many eyes,
Horror to some,
Elegance to me,
A perfect organism,
An imposing specimen,
She’s no Charlotte,
More of a Maleficent.

Assassin Bug

I think I spy an assassin bug,
Stalking amongst the twigs,
A reduviid killer,
Aspect of mantis,
Proclivity of spider,
A tiny predator of a huge world,
Or is it a tiny one?
Does the world belong to the bugs?

Cloaked in the corpses of ants,
Previous ravaged conquests,
Both armour and disguise,
Its proboscis twitches,
Secreting a lethal nectar,
Expecting to digest defeated internals,
Fodder for an emotionless killer,
I see it close in on an innocent,

Unsuspecting soul on a branch,
It strikes,
All wings and blades,
Corrosive saliva injected,
Reducing chitin to husk,
Its grim meal complete,
It gazes over at me,
Eyeing me hungrily,

Fight or flight?

Moths

I often feel,
I’m surrounded by insects,
Moths specifically,

They flutter in office spaces,
Flitter sullenly about suburbs,
And drift carelessly along sidewalks,

They commune briefly,
Then fly on,
Towards their each own light,

We’re all moths you know,
We flutter about on frail wings,
Fragile aimless things,

We don’t even know we’re doing it,
We all have different wings,
Yet we all strive towards the same thing,

Towards a light,

At least we believe it’s the sun,
But as we draw closer,
The sun is peculiarly crypt-shaped.