Gregor Samsa Suffers a Nightmare
Catapulck, plickture, fixton. Say it aloud
and you’ll know the symptom of tongueless
and jaw snap, teeth of two knives run together:
I’ll mate ye, I’ll mate ye.
In this place the stick of the blade goes up
the green arse and nobody cares to lament,
says we’re built to play aches and amputations
and we open, we open,
o, we open good. Lick me up the back
if you want to know human. Look me in the
bulb if you want a neat grin. Let me slice
you an orange embryo
and we can skitter the field like children.
I do remember human. I remember not-cape
back, not spindle, legs quite thick
and richer, rich.
I remember leaving dents where we stepped
and the fluffish dogs our playthings, aimless
and brown pouf. Now the terror uses me up
and the shiver
skits up the antennae. The feather me redder.
The hexagon lens like a patterned curse
repeating in multiple versions of world.
Gracks, cacckage, blick.
Say it aloud and the insects will giggle and
screech. Say it where the tongue doesn’t reach
and I’ll talk you up nice and slow, concise
as a cricket, cricket
locked in a fit of existence. Let me strike
you a deal, big fellow, my unremembered
hellhorse. Do it for me: take that finger
and press on this thorax—yes.
Miss Castalian’s entry for Iron Poet (opponent: Zaroz)
Now that round one is officially over, this was my favorite poem from the round. Just the way language is used is really excellent.