Insects

Beware the meager bug. It is more than you could ever imagine.

Top picture: "Undefined Are The Insects". (I admit, this isn't a picture that is literally about insects.)
Bottom picture: "Geodesic Spider".




This Bug Of Scribbled Circumstances
-----------------------------------------

And the insect cringed beneath this voice.
And it hid beneath its exoskeleton of imagination.
For here the loops intersected the circle.
Here the creature descended into itself,
Into the shell of brilliant transparency.
For there among the hard darkness was
This bug of scribbled circumstances.
And it crept upwards into its vanishing. It
Devoured the vision of itself, devoured
The shapeless aspect of its possibilities.
For it extracted its seclusion from within,
From within its trite existence as certainty
Without form, yet provoked.


=================

This Insect's Halting Perfection
-------------------------------------

The shimmering and slanted shell of this
Topaz bug, it glistened yet remained
The cinder within. It stirred itself,
And floated despite its absorbency. Yes,
It, this insect's halting perfection, it bled
The dim daylight upon such an edge. And
There, here, among the blandness was what
Has defiled this charisma. For beneath
The body of plush crumbs and dire elegance
Was the difficult glow we inspire so as
To shudder and expel those poignant
But elliptical silhouettes each succulent
And hopefully strained between that crevice,
Between a beautiful bug and its saddened skin.


...........................

Such Is The Bug
-----------------

Carelessly entwined, arachnids with lepidoptera
Each twirl in their redemption; each arise
From vowels and thunder so as to coil inside
Their ambidextrous voice. Ah, such is the bug.
This is the crustacean without form, without any
Madness otherwise adroit. This is the insect
Flung forth into strange trajectory, falling
As syllables upon cement, upon overt tapestries
Made poignant. Carelessly entwined, such flesh
Becomes distant from those exoskeletons.
And they are the seeds without amnesia. They
Have been the spectacular speck underneath us,
Under the vast air of our despicable perversion.
For the bugs are jagged, are afloat, are docile
And bilateral and enclosed within the cusp,
Within the purity of certainty rather miniscule.


,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

Inside My Exoskeleton
-----------------------

I was an insect. I was the iridescent grub, was
The flying caterpillar, a butterfly never obtained.
I was a magnificent cockroach -- for, I created
The world inside where I scurried. I was
The mosquito devoid of libido. I was
The bee careful in my sting. I was but
A fly loved for my triteness. I was but
A moth, transparent in my dimensions.
I was the locust -- but yet I hid, surely.
I was the beetle. And I surrendered again, yet I
Did not die. I was a grotesque bug, yes. And
Thus I did not adore humanity. I was
An insect; and therefore I became complete.
Oh, I remained inside my exoskeleton, remained
Underneath my actuality. For, there I was despised.

++++++++++++++

A Superstitious Insect
-----------------------

That insect's only virtue was its disease. For, it
Was not to be devoured, because it was indifferent
To its inner disgust. And yet it itself feasted upon
The nectar within us each. It then regurgitated,
Destroying its purpose within such amber. It remained
The beast of our paranoia. It scurried into the sand,
Into the crevice above all equations. It hid there
Inside our exaggeration, inside the entanglement
Of human earth and pristine dimensions. It hid under
The truthfulness of our ironic lies. And it was
Disturbing and maniacal. It was the insect,
A bug that behaves superstitiously, but not as we.
It gazes too upon the stars, yet forgets
That it cannot see them. It is moist. It is
Slandered. It is but ignorant of its own wealth,
Ignorant of its own delicious breath resounding.

*******************

Parallel Wings
---------------

Parallel wings, each a tapered eclipse once
Made from parchment and glass -- they float despite
This meandering insect's own decapitation. Oh,
Vertically arranged are these thoughts devoid of mass.
They become the light that does not exist. And
Then they descend unto our begotten sadness,
Descend onto the tabletop of oblivious reality.
I am encased here beneath them. And so I think
Of trite contemplation. I grasp all meaninglessness,
And so it fails in its triumph. I compress
The world into the crevice in the sky. And I
Then ascend aloft; for I
Unfold those parallel wings. I am encircled. I
Am but a mindless creature, am but an ugly bug
Hidden inside my abstinence, inside the cloth
Of transparent and porous metaphors now weightless.


Thanks,
Leroy Quet