25 February 2010


They cling to lampshades and live in windows,
And other insects consider them bimbos.
But domestic or wild, bird or bug?
I question these ladies who reply with a shrug,
They pose static upon bottles of wine,
Preferring this perch to Edenic vines.
Even through our drunken fug,
We can spy these shrunken bugs,
Finding them in the flour and mince
And on the butter - little-leg prints.
I learnt that birds are code for the Sapphic
(Lesbian play made less graphic)
Are you this way inclined or not,
Covered in pin-prick anti-acne spots?
'What does it matter?', I hear them cry,
'The most awesome thing's that we can FLY!'
It's true, that's cool, so don't be cruel
To these intruding studding jewels.

I am fond of our lady-like insects, much maligned by others. The prettiest of vermin. I'd paper my walls with your shells - black and bugged and red all over.

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