Random Acts of Poetry

Random Acts of Poetry

Metamorphosis

He imagines himself
crawling, buglike, dragging
each instant up the Sheetrock,
slowly in the moist funk
of a suffocating August.

Something is collapsing inside.
Quibbles, concepts drop away
like the petals of a dead rose---
little blood spots on the carpet,
a constellation of old qualms.

This is what it is like to shrivel
to a black dot, subhuman,
one goal replacing every thought:
Rise in the warm dark.
All you need is a greasy spot.

The world is a white wall.
Six legs will conquer it.

.......

Sorry for the ickyness. Just my attempt to write something Kafkaesque.