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by Willie Smith |
I'll grease the buggers. Put guts on the floor. In exoskeleton crunch exult. Feel with the sole of my boot crushed feelers. (This hate I wear on my skin; the skin on my nerves; the nerves crisscross my nothingness (I hear them cross the plaster up where the wall passes into the ceiling)). I detest these beasts. Didn't know they existed. Moved in only last week. I bought the farm. This is my real estate. Fuzzy legs peek from under the couch. Up in the cupboard arachnid scat appears. A number take to squatting openly in the sink. One leaps like a chamberpot off the wall. Lumbers through the parlor shag. Knows I can't get at it in that inch-deep frizz. Stupid these monsters ain't. We are not dealing with hick cyclops types. Although just as blind. They know you're there when your toe they stub; inject venom quick as coke; split laughing all the way back into the wainscot. I'll liquidate the suckers. With a spike pin 'em to a stud. Hear what I do to your kind? You dare come up outta that shag into the hall - your ass is grass. This no flyswatter. Meet Mister Ten Pound Sledge. Spider, spider on the wall, who's the fairest in this hall of just us? I scorn these freaks. Wish they had livers - I'd snatch a couple. Snuff one. Force the other to wolf his mate's liver raw. I loathe tarantulas. Because they create that racket skedaddling across the window. Chalk scrawling an obit on slate. Bastards of course themselves can't hear. Everyone of 'em deaf as a pissedoff god. And they stink - like wet dogs; when it doesn't even rain. Curs that wet the bed. It never rains. The tarantulas levitate at night into the mountains; drink the sky dry. This place parched as a Hades picnic popcorn fart. I dunno - maybe they do have livers. Goop I could stirfry like squid. Hey. wait - spiders eat strictly raw. In the raw. Tarantulas forever raw, eating it raw. And there's the rub: the captive would love liver of a fellow - compatriot paste, Gus's best guts. These throwbacks are cannibals! Moreover, fat as pies cows gorged on psyllium and prunes drop. At Stalingrad they would be blasted for tanks. Their politics, their philosophy, their very stilted scurry a cobbling of nihilism, solipsism, vampirism and the brand of sadism that with Greek fire drowns the bed, the bedroom, the bell, the book, the candle, the entire cathedral of sensuality. These guys are about as tasty as a Hitler-Attila-Ted-Bundy tamale. How can I know? - I hear them jabber at night, as they line up to lift off to plague the elevations; to desolate any relief to this Sahara a dizzying sun daily punishes. They trade ideas, nurture schemes - to reconfigure my brain into a web. Every last thought therein to trap, envenom; at leisure to oblivion suck - leaving just husk, empty casket consciousness in the wind to twist. Spider, spider on the ceiling - don't you get the feeling justice is blind? I guess what really set me on the warpath was when I caught two of 'em screwing on the diningroom table. Dogstyle. Going at it like a stack o' used tires in an earthquake. A third perched in the chandelier, dimly gawking, twisting pedipalps to pick up the sick vibes. Filthy exhibitionist scum. I come after 'em with a rolled Penthouse. Hover like death's own chopper. When I figure (by how the fangs cross) the guy's about to climax: WHAM! Damn tubate smut mag bounces off his hide like a rubber hose off a Saab. Worse - the blow escalates the orgasm. Swear I hear his pinpoint yap grunt: "God! God! G-o-o-o-d!" But to dwell on such surfaces the question of inner voices - Joan of Arc, Van Gogh, Joe Schizo. There for godsake let us not go. No time for the invisible. This is my real estate. I see it. That's it. Goes double for the fangs. Look at those hooks too long - they goose the neck, cause the flesh to crawl - as if the body were dispossessed. This infestation worships the creeps, the shivers, the willies; letting imagination on multi-articulated appendages run away with itself. Scimitar parts tarry with lust for human tartare. Whatever, word gets around. Spiders start screwing everywhere. Sunup to sundown. Right under my nose. Raunchy tarts! Genitalia seeming sloppily to squeak: Spank me! C'mon, monkey boy - spank me! spank me! Mount the search for a more formidable weapon. Locate a lotta cutlery out in the kitchen. Knives, however, inappropriate. Handles too short. Insufficient kill radius. Claw hammer - same problem. Piss a pint of poison in my eye before I could so much as aim, down on my knees preparing to strafe. Other bludgeons present themselves. Broom handle, fire poker, candlestick holder, trashcan lid. Till outta the closet tumbles the ten pound. But, come to think of it, fear a miss - or even a direct hit - punch a hole in the house; let in air. So. contemplate the boot. And yet. leery unready for foot-to-fang combat. Why this rant: Steel myself. Argue myself berserk. Steal up on that nightmare in the shag. Cock my pumpgun leg. Pogo dance his meat to go meet his maker. Think, outta the blue, shiteyeing the puce mophead in the tangerine nap, of The Beatles. They were bigger than Jesus. Everybody back then under four-ten; lucky to scrounge the matzoh to weigh a hundred. Plus, J.C. only made a few jugs of wine, a zombie or two, maybe a thousand fish sandwiches. Ill compares to the profit of a World Tour. Sometimes I detect an arachnid in my throat. Revolution #9 style. A spiral down the drain. A drone that fails to take off. A hairy struggling half-truth neither swallowable nor able to be spat. Actually, I love these creeps. They stimulate thought. Keep out the vacuum lurking at the end of the mind; like the hiss around a can of Yuban. At least when hysterical with disgust you feel alive. I rest the sledge up against the archway. I'll let this one go. His number not up; his number don't count. Wait to surprise the next couple. Join in bootwise from above. Tease each thorax. Guy on top; then the gal. Then. maybe drooling. probably trembling. lust frigid (tarantulas eat my eyes). ring down the curtain. And it is curtains. I bought the farm. This is my real estate. The wind's teeth. The skull echoed - in the skull's nose - upsidedown; on the occiput crouched yet another eight-legged wolf. Who knows? Who indeed at Rancho Tarantula knows? There are but two conclusions: Either hell exists, or I don't. |
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