Friday, January 20, 2017

Spider Ascendant




Spider Ascendant







The Fat God preens
on his eight stick legs;
no one tells
how he got so fat.
No one cares
who he ate last night.
 
In his ceaseless spin,
his angry twit,
no one observes the
arachnid eye
fixed cold below on his
appetite's end.

Five hundred mirrors
twice turn back light
on his blinded flies
their wings bloody buzzing
through broken glass
their deathwish devotions.


~January 20, 2017












Image: Ghost Spider © Ceecore, deviantart   fair use


5 comments:

  1. Election blues, kiddo? LOL. I see the beady eyes! and the "blinded flies".

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  2. Death wish devotion from them blinded by the dazzle of words meant to arouse and inflame. I think you pretty well summed up how we got here HW, finding the way out of the web looks very much harder now that is encasing us.

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  3. A death-dance and death-music, indeed. Centering the lines gives the poem a spider-laddering-down iciness. Each stanza mighty, binding the new White House in three. (Sometimes I wonder if it's most maddening--terrifying, too, perhaps--if hedge-spells aren't big enough to protect home and heart from spiders like these. I'm encouraged that the charms are dripping blacker ink. Didn't the First Lady look like a sacrificed virgin last night, dancing with Mr. Tubbster to "My Way" ...)

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  4. I can hear the blood-choked throat chanting of live and love, while drowning in all the results of their wings. And still, they smile, through curtains of wet red, swearing to the world, "Our Fat God is just like us. All will be well."

    Chosen blindness is a life-sucking curse...

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'Poetry is an echo asking a shadow to dance' ~Carl Sandburg