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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Poem that started as paradoxical imagery, but became a little more. Its not written specifically about moths, but with moths as a theme.

Submitted: May 09, 2007

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Submitted: May 09, 2007



See the one legged, blind man skip by

And wink at you, up there, sitting on

The very first wheel Man ever made, at least,

That's what your mother's mother's father,

Who wasn't actually a man, told you.


But where did you come from,

Now there's a question to ponder,

With your half brained mind, a

Tragic result from an oddly

Lobotomy themed car crash

With a carcass shaped much like

The very man you're pretending not to be.


Kidding, really, I'm not that cynical,

But who isn't not that cynical, really,

Your legs are falling off so you can swim better,

But you live in a desert of cement and lights,

That only sort of turn on at night.

You didn't want to get up a move either,

Too expensive, right?



You're coming in your pants

For the off chance...of a raise

In your paycheck's paycheck;

Playing the bagpipes so hard

Your kidney blows up (!)

Salivating into an oily slimy worm that

Burrows through your skin leaving

Eggs that look like your pretty blue eyes,

Oh wait those are your eyes,

And you only have two, what?


Grow up though, and take a look around,

There's a tumbleweed that's rolling past you,

This parking lot makes for an excellent tumbleweed plantation,

What with the neighbor's skeletons and your

Sister's brown, brown hair flying up in sky

Picking fights with the clouds,

Raining dandruff and scrunchies,

Salt of the earth, wait again,

Those are real people.


Lipstick graffiti on your lower face, your mouth becomes

A pink and red hurricane of saliva and profanity,

Perched on a sunburn and a very large wart,

You're a witch of the city, a myth of the road,

Glow where you please, but don't kill the moths,

They're my friends, you know, the moths are my friends.

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