Gregor Samsa no longer fears the rolled up newspaper

[italiceyeball]

Realize that I am not inside you,
as much as we invert and collide,
as much as we stare and
strain, bend, thrust
flushed like maniacs at a wake,
chasing some essential ghost,
sprinting lips and
eyelash hurricanes shredding
butterflies to
lukewarm entrail confetti.

Realize that it is not enough
taking razor to skin
to thin my boundaries with the World,
to bring the light close
under translucent finger webbing
in search of secret pearls,
hungry nymphs burrowed and feasting
on pilgrimage to a hidden
heart (a hidden heart that
beats the space between
us) that beats the
space between
us, the space
between us,
beaten.

And oh! Mirabile dictu!
What rainbow bruise adorns this tender passage!
How the beetles dance in carrion glee!

Realize that I have waged war!
flesh against chitin for a thousand years,
until, finally, armored in foe carapace
wielding the severed limbs of a million dead,
until, finally, song of woeful chittering
and gnashing mandibles,
until, finally, I join you
inside your timeless hive,
subsumed by pheromone caress,
funneled through the eye of your terrible purpose.

A last prayer then,
for the last children of Men:
May your transformation
be as painful
as your touch.