/lit/ - Literature

My net, wide and wiry, casts a prickly shadow
The Mayflies fly through it willynilly
Escaping the whistling thrush
For the most part.
Some entangle themselves with crochet ease
Quasi-deliberately without slinging a please
My grandfather handed me the web down
Like his spongey blood seeping through the gears
The generational twirl marries the pests
Entomologically currying favor with centipede breasts
Save the rest.
I hear a high pitch stiletto squeal from one stuck
"I'm crushed under the gravity of my own existence"
It says and stuff
Tickled pink, I shake my head at the knockoff gnat
And tell him to hit the road Jack, you got that?
He did or he didn't, can't remember
Anything but the porridge like fact that in December
Atlas' butterfly catch is my home—
God forbid when in Rome I froth alone.


Bunnycleaver