Posted 06-08-2004 at PFFA.
Scarab in a Barrel
"Break the crown, Tiger. And point
the trident up. Remember, up
then down into me," Scarab says.
"Smoke me, wax me; if not
I will go berserk."
Anyone like Scarab -- gutted will, hunched,
weathered, sour of bladder -- bends, but snaps.
Blend the antidote: lime in his whiskey.
Slowly, he slurs inside and pales.
"Oh, Tiger, balance
the crowbar, carefully needle the hutch's hinge,
drive your trident through."
You and I will crawl forever.
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Not just a fill-in-the-blank poem, oh no no no. See here.
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