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tearing the rag off the bush again
Prehuman Bug Guy To Life PDF E-mail
PREHUMAN BUG GUY TO LIFE
as translated from Ro’do Bo’
(from an unknown poet)

My lower calves are books of bug bites
I read them and read them with transparent annoyance
penance I think for the day when an angry goddess
poured a pail of soapy water and detergent into a hornets' nest
and destroyed their civilisation just like ours very soon
when we'll sting unknowingly the eyelid of beautiful Terra
with the teensy tear in her asphalt skirt

Chiggers are terrific! They terror into your skin
tiny red flecks of tongue left from your last sexy
and you are multitudinous like a diseased lolly pop
Yes, the giant spider outside of my winder is
she's big as a wallop from a sock of coins
how I pay for staple foods like sack of bread
they call my spider a writing spider because
she doesn't write anything all day and fat
her butt is always up genitals breezing in the air
so she must be a poet I pulled down my tight pants
showed her my bumble bee and she threatened to dance
like a trampoline except her husband is a tiny cuck down
We're slobbering over his desire to be beaten by big big
chiggers have no hierarchy and no despots they do not
watch the text of your leg change into a love story
there are no love stories anymore because everyone
is afraid insects carry disease and no one wants to itch
But itching is terrific! It means sex! It's smiling at me!
PREHUMAN BUG GUY TO LIFE
as translated from Ro’do Bo’
(from an unknown poet)

My lower calves are books of bug bites
I read them and read them with transparent annoyance
penance I think for the day when an angry goddess
poured a pail of soapy water and detergent into a hornets' nest
and destroyed their civilisation just like ours very soon
when we'll sting unknowingly the eyelid of beautiful Terra
with the teensy tear in her asphalt skirt

Chiggers are terrific! They terror into your skin
tiny red flecks of tongue left from your last sexy
and you are multitudinous like a diseased lolly pop
Yes, the giant spider outside of my winder is
she's big as a wallop from a sock of coins
how I pay for staple foods like sack of bread
they call my spider a writing spider because
she doesn't write anything all day and fat
her butt is always up genitals breezing in the air
so she must be a poet I pulled down my tight pants
showed her my bumble bee and she threatened to dance
like a trampoline except her husband is a tiny cuck down
We're slobbering over his desire to be beaten by big big
chiggers have no hierarchy and no despots they do not
watch the text of your leg change into a love story
there are no love stories anymore because everyone
is afraid insects carry disease and no one wants to itch
But itching is terrific! It means sex! It's smiling at me!


Because you're young and horny bugs are nice to you.
When the multi-legged beasts make you feel alive in spots
you never know you had that's the time to start painting
and for ants especially rub yourself with honey
but kill the wasps they make you feel too alive so alive
tha you can die from the allergic reaction and then only
spiders will mourn you by weaving a shround around your balls


And They're not the only ones
I have tended my garden with my rod
bent over monastically caring for immense
weeds the trick to a weed garden is to let
everyone erect themselves tall and hard
until the quiver at the touch of breeze
then don a cowpoke hat and ejaculate
poison all over their quivering quiverings
thus to allow them wilting relief as any good
mistress knows Imagine me as a monk and cowboy
I am an excellent mistress Today and Tomorrow
cuckold lying beneath someone else kill kill sprittle

   
Baudelaire was never this active
nor was he ever a farm boy
maggots were the only insects he used --in poetry, at that--
but he did see himself as a tiny bug in the crotch
of his huge giantess who from boredom and city spleen
squashed her lovers like bedbugs at the end of the 19th century
a bad time for bugs a great field era for naturalists
so the only bug to reconcile poets with their forked-tongue lab-rat colleagues
was the grasshopper in la fontaine's fable who sang until he had to beg the ant
for a moist weed and a vitaminous plant
but this is not what this poem is about I see it has left the realm of bugs
for erections breezes and sexual-emotional positions
typical only of the human insect and not the noble arachnid
get back to bugs you insectivore or maybe insectophobe
now is your time to crunch on a hardshell roach


Further Baudelaire was this baudy
and more, that's why he change
his name two represent what
many thought was a forked tongue
actually being diphallia of the mouth
had you been in the dong garden with me
you'd know my topic never slipped off
that of divine buggery

I only write when I feel the tick
-le crawling over my downy pubey hairs

   
because as a descendant of the decadent symbolists
and the hyper-realistic modernists and pop art and dali
I am only me when I am a tree with pubic stalks alive
with insect life preferably new york city insect life
and if you reader my annoyed toddler and semblable go yiik
my art has gotten you right where you tick
in the target of your shopping gene which is a bug


I bought a bug at Target it was red
on my flaccid mosquito yet dry and
much harder than I thought sooooo silky!
the spiders led a march into history
they found your dna in every boys mouth
from whittleman to the blind homo
you must have descended the decadents
how low can you go? they were babies
you spray them in their womb
the bug has straps and it feels good

   
this Target bug manufactured in China
where one child-one-family girls-no-good rule
is still the law though gendering kapital
is quickly shading and deepening differences
and as the chinese masturbate less and less
we invent a rhetoric that belies ever-frantic
bug buying spraying and cooking (by chefs
this last one at the Insect Museum in New Orleans
the New World's greatest bug display)
where you enter (like in this poem) thinking
to muse on the annoyance of heat-crazed vermin
and end up in exegesis like an enthomologist
who discovers his body via art


I have discovered my body via buggery too
in China and without the need of one
child or singing Christmas card with angels
At night, did you know, I use my computer
screen as a bug zapper where I sit alone
darkly waiting for them and they cum all over
millions of the buggery crawl on me and my
machine with pinces a goggle and juise flo
--I meant juises a flower--my light to them
is like the raw ass of the tightest sex whore
they cum erecting and cover me and my
machine like a budding young neo-nasi
discovering blogs via made in China computer
he writes about supremacy on a screen
my buggery calls the sweet as of Matilda


I see why Bill Burroughs saw himself as the Exterminator
he had the bugs where he wanted to them but the sheer
numbers of them exhausted him
he was a lot less Christ-like than you
the bugs made off with your loin-cloth
so now here is Baron von Rezenstein with a magnifying glass
and an oedipal abacus that looks just like a butterfly
 
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