First the moody rafflesia

Then under him something long
left unattended, borrowed—
and bored the ants take it
to their shocktroops & make it
bleed so much in the ant ponds.
A measure of bees dive deadlong
into their tunnels, their wings
folded back like tired suns.
To clog the tunnels the bees all die
& muffle the scuttle of footsteps
running ever into scarabs and loud surprise.
Those scorpions nearby those lice
unwrap themselves in the tired sun
which watches calm as ever it was sure
the tunnels turn to sepulchers. Hot then,
the scorpions entrenched drag their tails
quilted in honey and the abdomens
of new-come artists on the latelived shelf.
The tired sun kneels to pray
for ants and bees rob the day
& thus all tired things burn away.

___

Yet another satire of the 20th century’s toils of war.

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~ by Jeremy on April 28, 2010.

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