It is said, my friend, that spiders are hardly small or benevolent and that the insect world itself is wrought with peculiarities of struggle. Yet what is little said is how the cockroach is merely a cockroach in our perceptions and our language. In their world it could be said that a roach is fashioned from the gilt armor of royalty and covered in ranking spines that may twitch in communications of golden pleasures, and yet somehow you may not believe this though you have witnessed roaches settle for life in the same direct motions you scuttle for in your procurements of mental speeds and claws of motive.
Our roach here mimes old passages of a world-weary Don Marquis who travels insectile across keyboards to deliver small granules of truth amid honesty. Like Mr. Marquis' psuedonym you can call our roach friend Archie.
In bathroom-tiled temple floors Archie crawled through bird-chirp love's lore and saw something a human normally wouldnt see. He saw a rebirth in coiled old cords knotted with wound's brand of property, and let it be said in such a way for Archie is highly figurative and rarey literal for such is the life of a roach that leads sometimes to dreams of finer dreams.
Archie here in tiled-temple licked his wounds with rasp unfurled and adorned askew antennae with silked spittle dew, these wounds from former flight alone in day's night of blessed and cursed markers of destined loves and hatred's old lights.
Saw old cracks in tile pavement and spotted marks where blood had dripped in scarlet punctuation but yet a symbolic splatter from early days he hadn't seen but with now-bent antannae and his golden wing sounding like a small telephone talking in buzzing rings. But Archie flits from map to map, so is not responsible for the order of his things, his things said or brought, bought or singed.
No sentences in cockroach eyes, just whorls of colored shapes. Woman-whirl with man-sweep in arms afire as desire's woolen leap. Old hatreds dissolved in water-splatter of ancient mildew cleaned from off white-porcelean where blades of speech could not shatter the steam-loving mints of temple's shushing lyre. Sense in poetry is not Archie's finer style.
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1 comment:
This is the side of Grigor Samsa that should have been brought out into the light.
The Tao tells us to always keep low to the ground, like water, and that is where the great wisdom is found.
Perhaps our gargantuan human loftiness keeps us from seeing the filthy crumbs of our salvation.
A pleasure as usual, Finery. Keep 'em comin!
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