The bug was digging in my hands
With spades on their clutch
Used as a lifting jack with dents.
Palms’re rooted in and much
There’s wound on bare and redness skins.
The shining bullet walked
On black and stinging glassbead strings.
No matter how it’s locked
Or how it runs or hides or falls
I’ll press it with my teeth
Through spittle curtains doesn’t molls.
Be quiet, bug, beneath
My jaws and let it really help
To chew not spitting out
Without vomiting. Not well
I ate it, through the rout
I had to find again my game,
To pick it up anew
And long to force myself to gain
The same. The insect dew
Was sucked from sponge of the remains
Capsizing in my mouth
And pressed by molars in the dance
As in my raw seed drouth.
Night before 05/15/2011