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