lady bug
sitting on the wall when a lady bug bumps off my wrist, crawls away as i wait for the lucky caress. the last time she brought nothing, but the time before she brought you, you and your screaming rain, ecstatic leaps, and new snores. i never doubted the beetle afterwards, but tonight i discovered her peculiar loyalty. a quick bump on the wrist and we’re again having drinks on a lake of frozen sweat. your hair is longer and straight, your face speaking of a former life in a language i once heard flying over greenland. anatomic assumptions on the setting passions, memories like teeth that know the routine, the spots are the same . . . the ladybug crawls on, whatever it is, crawling toward the next man, flying those imperfect distances from affection to affection. you’re sitting here and i’m sitting here and the lady bug says it makes sense. in the beginning there was the beetle, and in the end there was the beetle, and the beetle was god, demanding us to fuck.
Published on November 10, 2012 08:06