Gift of The Madwoman

She is buzzing, buzzing, out-of-control

The dream-car screeches as she blasts rock n’ roll

Taking sharp turns at kill-me-please speeds

Some small, unheard voice inside of her pleads —

But the driver is sober.

Ha!

She’s just fucked in her mind —

A pissed-off Beehive –

Roiling inside.

A clueless kid prods it with a long wooden stick

As if length gave him safety.

Oh, what a cruel trick.

Angering, angering…

On the verge of attack.

This horned mass of stingers —

No protection from that.

(The mere thought of it makes the Madwoman laugh.)

Revenge bubbles imminent,

The Beehive? It cracks.

Out comes the raging, buzz-buzzing mass.

She can’t see the road now –

Blacked out and Blind.

The child drops the stick —

He’s been stung from behind.

Swarmed like a piece of ripe, bloody meat,

The child who Tricked

Now becomes Treat.

The driver, she crashes —

Is thrown to the street,

Head cracks like the beehive

Death her final defeat?

As her life filters out of her…

The child —

He breathes.

For once she is dead

The bees turn and they leave.

But the gift of the Madwoman

Burns bright and alive:

For the Ignorant Child

Has now become

Wise.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Shovel Man

He is The Shovel Man.

The one who goes out on icy evenings

Lifting up the heavy, brown dirt with his metal instrument,

Loading it onto Whatever Might Be Growing There.

Killing it swiftly.

Wiping it out.

“You do not deserve to live. You do not deserve to live. You do not…”

He heaves His Instrument up and down again

Masturbating mechanically.

Robotically.

No humanity left; which is sad –

Because he had some once.

Motivated now by Survival Instinct gone horribly awry.

“I must go on. Only I. Only I. Only I.”

And this is how The Shovel Man spends his days:

He wakes.

He looks.

No. He watches.

Any seedling that pops up;

Any bud that dares rear it’s tiny head;

Any expression of anything at all –

He snuffs out.

He is part God, part Man and all Fear.

And he no longer notices that with each pile of dirt

Upon each baby feeling

He murders, also,

Himself.