Long Mandibles Poems
Long Mandibles Poems. Below are the most popular long Mandibles by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mandibles poems by poem length and keyword.
There are killings,
suffocation in gullet
hell holes, decapitations
by mandibles stalking in shadows,
death pits at the bottom
of slippery throated flowers
and racked on a web,
a struggling moth
slowly turning into soup.
My garden is a slaughter
field littered with the leftovers
from deadly feasts.
And the victims….what
of their inaudible cries,
the screams broadcast
on wavelengths beyond
my ear. Do they plead
for mercy, feel pain
register in whatever
rudimentary brain animates
their brief lives.
Help me ! Please help me !
does the moth cry,
feeling the spiders fangs
penetrate and pump poison
into its trussed body.
Or do I give such
small life undue significance
affording it compassion
when it should be exempt.
But where's the line ?
Size ?
Its propensity for domestication,
its rank on an arbitrary scale ?
The perfumed beauty
of a single flower diverts
the senses and disconnects
attention to the suffering
of small things.
We are blissfully unaware.
Does anyone hear them,
does anyone care,
or does life's little screams
fall into an uncaring nothingness
and if so, then what of our own.
In the morning dew
redolent sounds
of summer surround me
In pendant blue
I flaunt my splendour
eagerness cresting
my desires peaking
He wonders around
charming the milieu
dressed in stripes and
an invincible air
Dashingly he comes to me
whispering sweet nothings
his music sonicates me
Enchanted I allow
his mandibles to
masticate me
I could feel his warmth
rubbing rhythmically
all along my lobes
Then
he titillates open
my softness
and sucks up the succus
as I let him
relish my goodness
we enthuse in this moment
Of pure bliss
until he
seeds me
Feeling sated
I radiate in the risen sun
And let him flutter away
to his flourishing fantasies
Marching in line, six legs on the ground,
These mini-soldiers do not make a sound.
Nature's army, tough as can be,
Fighting for the queen and colony.
Antennae twitching, always alert,
Ready for battle in leaves and dirt.
No fear, no doubt, just pure dedication,
Defending their home with determination.
Scouts lead the way, workers follow through,
Soldiers guard flanks, and the enemy pursues.
Each has a role, a job to do,
In this six-legged army, tried and true.
Mandibles sharp, like swords they wield,
Exoskeletons are hard, a living shield.
Some spray acid, chemical warfare,
Others lift weights that seem unfair.
United they stand, divided they're strong,
Cooperation's their marching song.
Tiny in size but huge in might,
These insects put up one hell of a fight.
From desert sands to the forest floor,
These troops wage their tiny war.
No medals given, no glory sought,
Just instinct-driven battles fought.
So next time you see an ant hill rise,
Look closer, you might realise:
These aren't just bugs that make you squirm,
They're nature's soldiers, firm.
Respect the ant, this mini-marine,
Part of Earth's oldest war machine.
In strength and numbers, they'll survive,
The mighty, mighty ant hive jive!
A black armored predator
plodding (as beetles do
when not chewing upon other insects)
around the lip of a bowl,
clapping together stubby wings,
razor sharp mandibles
swatting at the aromatic steam.
Beetles are tanks
they are built to withstand
all in-coming,
Birds don’t eat them,
they taste like baby goo
dipped in crispy aspic.
How small
can a natural born killer get?
The beetle tentatively,
marches around the edge of a bowl
as if hunting its own trail.
Will it find enough of itself
to make a decent beetle meal?
These and other questions of girth,
capacity and predatory prowess
must wait,
for it has fallen
into the tomato soup.
This particular beetle
cannot swim,
perhaps its mini motor was out of gas
or its tank too heavy to float?
I put the soup aside,
not that hungry anymore.
At three, the garden writes itself in slime—
silver calligraphy across the flagstones
where I pace in my wool habit, sweating.
The moths are frantic priests
hurling their small bodies at the lamp’s false sun,
again, again, a liturgy of burning.
I used to call this Devil’s hour.
Now I know there is no Devil,
only the slug’s blind pull toward rot,
the cartography of appetite
mapped in mucus on the path
where saints once walked to Matins.
The hostas are being eaten.
Something is always eating.
I watch a moth singe its wing-dust on the bulb—
that powdery baptism, useless—
and drop stunned to the stones
where a slug begins its pilgrimage across the corpse.
This is the only honest prayer:
mandibles working in darkness,
the chemical shimmer of a slug’s foot
seeking the soft meat of decay.
No one is listening. No one was ever listening.
The garden teaches me its single lesson—
matter consuming matter,
the world folding into itself
like hands at vespers, purposeless,
perfect. The moths know
what I am only learning:
light is not love. Light is just light,
and we are who burn for.
A screen door
creaks
small incursions
into rip and hole.
Unseen, a creeping grub and thriving,
chitinous mandibles
munch upon the desiccated dead,
thrive in the thrash and mingle.
Corruption forms its disorderly queue,
jointed question marks
walk on segmented legs
spindly limbs pry
where slick eggs incubate.
As time swings its metronome,
splintered chips
flake away, wood
cracks its rotting bones.
Internal scaffoldings
crumble,
mold multiplies,
mildew clings to
muck.
A festering wriggles forth.
"Honey, can you oil the back door,
it's creaking again."
I scrunch my butt deeper into the sofa.
"I'll get on it after the game." I say,
making a mental note
to get more beers in,
Tomorrow, slap some paint
over the wormholes
maybe.
You refuse, refusing the salvant call,
laying there in fetal position,
enthralled by my hex of vinegar and scrawl of liquids release that just seem to pour out of me organically.
Hissing in Wormwood's frequency dwelling, Hollywood "your signature home" learning-annex-auxilliary.
My park and recreation facility.
Reserved, this space taken.
A dump, next to unopened salve
and not knowing your own, side-bar-by-law$.
An unlived, contrived existence, of litigation before dawn.
So shine on, shine on,
Dear: ) (Newton Star blink out before the gravity of
persistence, taken aside, the watchtower of your keen eyed media straddle, beacons a distress
call, to your final hour.
The time your nightwatch is voyeur
procured.
Humpty Dumpty asses with sulphur in their saltwatering laffy Taffy maws, fixed, agape, ajar."Give me some sugar baby."
Jezebellians, you shunned, the truth, when it was audio visually- bore.
Gored yourself on the posts of a grinding of mandibles and dripping blood upon the crucible stone and forbidden bindings.
No white night when a guiding light
doth shine on dead eyes.
No silver linings filling those cavities.
Only self, depravity.
Will be mouthed from the still-shine forever moored.
Uttered where windmills churn electro
Codes of algo-executionary tables
to turn.
Churning the butter of temptation
with pouting maid determination.
Mitigated, my starlings it is for,
the ungrateful scored.
Cookie cutter milkmaids of
factorized words.
Music for Nations.
A union of the snake said Plato.
Fall from the night.
As an Nova of unbeknownst, essence,
implode yourself of something more,
lost in the mire of the ignorance of indifference, onloaded to fill an emptiness void of frivolous showroom and commercials shined core.
Enjoy the aftermath in my garden.
Take another bite of my lore.
Rise, a new creation, in new age culturism,
the retro- reel of Humanism, of illusionary-fusion of pride and behind the scenes thrones.
Slavery algorithms,
my Holograms of flesh and Bones.
Burning out on the Threshing floor.
Bug Destiny
Round tiny bug moves slow along the garden path
Avoiding traffic as it trudges along
Carries the hardened armor of its ancestry
Down there too, through the centuries
The weight of that nobility
With it, on its back, through history
Portals of time laid out in its direction
Its lineage developed skills for battles
In darkened bitter caves
With aging somber rocks in far off lands
And along the seasoned shores
Over millions and billions of years
Ants search day and night for this small creature
Little round bugs are a staple on their menu
They will not rest until
This morsel is served up in honor of their queen
Solo insect as black as death
Stands by in armor ready
Ants take their forces onward against the drop of day
Their tiny march relentless, endless and grave
Black bug hunkers down in his encasing
Waiting In case bad things should happen
And to survive another day
The army attacks
Storms in on solo bug in stark surprise
With concise incisions ready
Sharp mandibles set to dissect it on the spot
Little bug has one last trick
It tastes of sour and stinky feet
The ants retreat defeated
Round bug makes its rounds about the garden gate
In its cultivated aged defense makes it to another day
Future generations will praise this day
That kept their kind alive
Depriving queen ant of a nasty meal
Of destinies surprise
I stand and watch the exodus of ants
Through sig sag tracks, they wind their way
They march like disciplined soldiers
Never deterred by hurdles on their way
Are they fleeing from an imminent danger?
Or are they on their way to forage their daily bread
They move on urgency, no straggler on the way
Oh! With what collective energy they tread
It seems, these tiny insects lead an active communal life
Sometimes thousands of them scuttle on the ground
We wonder who summons them to gather as a group
Usually they keep in line with the ones going in front
White ants build underground condominiums
As from castles, their spires tower above the ground
They are thus comfortably settled beneath
In air conditioned compartments within the mound
Black ants occupy every creek and cranny
And live in unified colonies without strife
They are not fussy about where they stay
Any humble shelter is enough for their simple life
If by chance one gets hurt or wounded
The others generously carry it on their back
It is fun to watch them scurry on their tiny legs
And observe them move along, forming a neat track
Red ants are the miscreants of the whole lot
With mandibles like pliers, they pinch n pierce the skin
They might even crawl unseen to our beds
Leaving us itchy and scratchy making our heads spin
If the carcass of a rat or roach is found
In no time it is stripped down to the bone
If some grain is strewn on their way
In seconds each one carries and it is done
Unity is their strength, through precept they prove
They work together and live in harmony
They never rob another of his property
Nor like man covet his neighbor’s money!
15. Jan. 2022
Insect’s Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Angela Tune
TO PRESERVE YOUR HEALTH
YOU MUST RESERVE YOUR DATE AND TIME
TO ENTER THE EMPIRE OF DEATH
“Arrête, c'est ici l'empire de la mort!"
Sign in Paris Catacombs
SKELETON OF PARIS
i dared each dank step
into the catacombs of Paris
thank the Lord
each step was not
creaking bone
i’d descend, of course
my choice, my feet
move into the nether
the deep dark secret tomb
a heavy door
surreality adorned
below the stinking streets
the foul history
of death
dredged up
from six feet deep
dusted and cleansed
the mandibles,
joints, heartless
bones
the boneyard quarry
accentuated death
having a new spin
on “putting our heads together,”
a collaboration of dust
the bleak hallway, I dare
not touch, i cross myself
ashes to ashes, dust to dust
attempting to stay in the center
of the narrow way
O the clink and clank
the synergy
that will fuse these bodies together
at the end of time
who will be the first to awaken?
will he or she faint away
as they discover
their dissected bones?
The artful remains of Robespierre, Lavoisier,
Danton - the dearly beheaded come to life,
guests of downtown…way downtown Paris.
Upwards of seven million squeezed together.
The leap of disease…the health crisis relieved.
1/13/2022