Spiders

I'm stuck in her web
I'm the fly to her spider
She's caught me and I'm crawling
Towards her eight lovely eyes.

If I can see them I'm happy
And I can see that she's hungry
She'll eat me right up
And I'll be lost inside.
Too polite to struggle.

To the fly that's what love is:
Giving yourself entirely,
Letting her have you.

'Welcome to my parlour'

To her I'm just another fly
Accidentally ensnared
And not really wanted in the web I'll die
Teeth crunching exoskeleton
Shatter it, my insides splatter out
Disgusted by the feelings that I hide
She doesn't hear my final cry.

'Said the fly to the spider'

For behind her stood a little boy,
4 years old if he's a day,
Clutching in his sticky palm
A stick,
A toy,
With which he tore her web away
And squashed the spider in two now stickier fingers.
Fly, still dying, screams at her insides,
Foul, dark, spurting, revealed on kid's nails,
And on sticky palms our innards mix together.

But on another day, another spider,
And another fly,
A kinder boy just chases them away,
And they escape,
The fly showing hunter how to hide,
And live,
Spider teaching prey to hunt.
Together.

'As flies to wanton boys'

To the spider that's what love is.
The fly who gets away
With her.

I'm not that fly,
I never get away,
But some day:

“Welcome to my parlour”
Said the spider to the fly.
“Have you met my friend
the four-year-old?”
Replied the unsubtle, unsly fly,
The suicidal glint of love in his eye.

: 07 Apr 2005 15:30 |  Tags: Poetry |  Comments (0) |  Report a problem