Long Abdomens Poems
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Once upon a time, a possi or sparkle of beetles lived in an abandoned tract. The group was cloistered for being so uncooperative with hardworking beetles and for being selfish. There are adult male and female beetles that mated and lived with their young. And for each day in one whole week that all the young are being fed, the young noticed that they are like outcasts and were never permitted to play with more beetles outside their territory. From their parents, all the young learned that betrayal, lying, stealing and cheating are the basics of survival.
One night, an explosion occured in their territory -- a human-made destruction. Many beetles died and very few survived.
Two months later, a new generation of beetles with enhanced pheromones originating from the very few old survivors was created. This group of beetles was gifted with luciferin in their abdomens to spark a better lineage of beetles to enlighten the paths of the misled. Wondering how the new breed of beetles transformed into luminous ones at night, all other beetles and insects are reminded that not all bigger insects and the like will remain or prevail as predators to smaller, weaker species.
One day, when this group of beetles multiplied and was discovered by humans, they were called "fireflies."
Fireflies have emotions too, like humans. Sixty-one days or equivalent to two months, all fireflies can live. Not more than two months even ghost or purple flies can survive, to limit the extent of illumination on grasslands and running, moving waters anywhere close to human shelter.
Fireflies are not pets. They are helpful to crops and human survival. They are not pests, but nest on high grasses to protect nature and preserve human interests on exploration.
Fireflies lit
In dark places of nit
Roving lightworkers
Each night on bleak shelters
Full of life
Life in you that spark
In your mind, body and soul
Every breath of life
Soothes and sparkle in the dark
(Prosebite)
Midnight plus fifteen, the streets come alive,
Spilling tattooed mobs, teeming motion-blurred
From the bars, karate and kung-fu moves in car parks
And upon telephone kiosk phone books.
Kebabs stinking of extra onion, chilli and garlic sauce,
Soaking up beer and chasers, churning innards;
Chinese takeaway cartons slung in gutters,
Spraying noodles and rice with random artistry.
Spiralling fumes of vindaloo, popadums and naan
Swirl, snake, samba under neon rain;
CCTV super models, skirts no more than belts
Hiked under hips, distended abdomens drooping with gravity.
Navels pierced, studded, impaled with fake silver,
Flesh faintly turning green-tinged;
The high heeled stagger continues at ankle-breaking
Precariousness; teetering and stumbling, acrobatically drunk.
Swimming heads reject the motion sickness,
And vomit starts to rise, disgorged, spattering the wet paving
With rainbows of liquid colour abstraction,
Trickled with a gleeful pale amber stress incontinent stream.
It’s easy for a casual observer to plead for escape from
This planet of the apes, but have a heart – they’re young,
Free and doomed beyond all relative conception.
Why not be cool, have fun?
As she drinks nectar from a flower, sweetness from heaven falls like dew
anointed with a gentle rain amidst sun showers she appears as if on cue
Lifting her wings she lands on a Zinnia beneath a tinted sky of April blue
flight of fancy fanning fast, fabulous marvel, she is beauty true on true
Pheromones fill the air as the males call the females to their abode
their abdomens linked tail-to-tail, and on the damsels' eggs the male seed are sowed
From thereon, dull caterpillars slowly transformed into exquisite beauties
then, to a new hope, many newborns flew, making gardens filled with cuties
She then whispered that before brightness, there was a very dark darkness~
so don’t give up on your life just because your present swims in starkness
"Learn from my life cycle," she further said, "beauties that once were can still be
so your belief in sunshine after this raging storm is paramount and key"
From then on, she became me, and I became her, and hope of a better tomorrow fills me
far from me, fear then fled—I face my problems with glee, from hopelessness my life is free
As a mum of 3 I have recently discovered that I am blessed by dirty dishes
On a daily basis I have cussed and cursed at their very presence on my counter top
Without actually recognising what they represent;
Until now
They signify that the bellies of my children are fed and full
They reflect a nourishment of more than love
They result; directly, from the privilege of electricity, food, and water
They do not see the homeless on the street hoping to find meagre scraps from within a dustbin
They cannot hear the groans of the child’s belly which doesn’t remember its last meal
They do not smell the anxiety of the mother who tries to still her hungry child’s cries
They cannot touch the malnourished masses; their swollen abdomens and sunken eyes
They do not taste the stale, acrid water drunken desperately in a bid to stay alive
Today I came to my senses
I realised that I am truly blessed by dirty dishes.
violent power seduces within
moments equipping assurance,
swirling senses of embrace,
separating
circumstances
confusing the present.
our bodies succumbed-motionless
form clouds above, trembles of loneliness.
outpouring rivers of wine,
her innocence,
my softness
aching squalls of temptation,
tender flesh
discloses nature
behind fine-combed meadows
parting our conscious,
consuming
lavender harlot kisses.
bearing our weight-drumming,
steady-cadence-of- passion. numbing
spilled breath heavy as
saturating coastal fog.
peacefulness of sleep,
caresses shivers across my legs,
whirlwind tremors
begin tensing her thighs,
(a suffocating serpent)
imprisoned between heavens
softness of touch, across abdomens.
for a moment,
shivering,
exposed true nature,
life becoming no parenthesis,
bodies wrapped in
weightless vertigo-
Before the hemoglobin rushes in parting life from life
empty abdomens swirl from the dust. Born to die,
their parasitical humor is a terror in the ear.
Blood from wine in the vein, drawn past
the epidermal sanctity of a crimson relic.
Swiftly they fly about seeking that aching moment.
With tourniquet wings buzzing set in veneration
about their host.
And for a brief moment they seem holy
enough to not need to mend their religion
and carry out these kindless proverbs.
But then falling from grace so gently
they descend down touching lightly
with the bent legs of a sinner needing redemption.
Nathan Martin 2010