m r spy das
Eleven arachnids of various sizes, all mottled brown, lace and coil, shuttle and stride their work over the evening out my window, my irrational fear they'll web over the world rising, a pink ink peter meter in a verbal bath-house at the scene.
One large spider climbs alone, eclipsing a small section of moon as it moves up from the silhouetted church steeple that bisects the pink and purple raver-glow stick on its side of the skyline over North Bay.
The window opens on a western view of the city; on my looking-out left, a steeple, the backside of 'allison the bookman' with its purported mile and a half of books and its browser-devouring only faintly musty mystique. Somewhere unseen way up Algonquin avenue, squatting benevolently in the deep green, no doubt stalked even now by outlaw bears, byronically, the school that brought me here.
One small spider must have made a mis-step; snared in invisible doom, it begins to thrash and twitch, and the second largest spider of this windowsill community angles down, more light bleeding from the already anemically pale moon in its wake. Is this what communities do?
Rapt, slack-mouthed at an arachnoid Leone tableau superimposing the grimy but hopefully lit community counselling building my window looks down on, but I don't. The little spider's eight legs rail against what we both now sense to be inevitable, and the machinic, terribly inerrant forelimbs of the giant, a twilight king among spiders, seize it unhesitatingly, the imperious predator's slightly pointed abdomen thrusting in, two further legs locking over the littler, and, soundless snap! the cloak and dagger outline of the head moves in, mandibular fangs I can't make out but convulsively envision sinking, making their mark, injecting their ink.
Their ink is an eraser, and the small spider's unwriting is alwready written as its interior liquifies..
"It's a hard world for little things" clunks out in my attic head like golfclubs falling after a subtle shift in the stasis of a house which is not the apartment I'm standing in; I rewatched Night of the Hunter last week, and now I'm blowing smoke up the ass of the deepening purple evening, tired, tried, faintly sunburnt and smelling of fancy cat slurried with pumpkin, fresh-burning cigarette, lemon slice and lake water.
I'm watching spiders die and kill and wondering which of them I identify with most, and remembering the help meeeeee squeak of that scene in the original fly with colon-clenching and hackle-erecting tense affect.
Somewhere, a child is being beaten. Probably thousands of them, thinking globally, perhaps closing on a million. But, Freud aside, it's nothing to do with me, I am here alone amongst the spiders, and I don't moth but if I had the net tonight I might. Better yet, I'll sit, contemplate a second cigarette, not smoke it, and let my spiders do the mothing while I gingerly observe, expectant of I don't know what.
One large spider climbs alone, eclipsing a small section of moon as it moves up from the silhouetted church steeple that bisects the pink and purple raver-glow stick on its side of the skyline over North Bay.
The window opens on a western view of the city; on my looking-out left, a steeple, the backside of 'allison the bookman' with its purported mile and a half of books and its browser-devouring only faintly musty mystique. Somewhere unseen way up Algonquin avenue, squatting benevolently in the deep green, no doubt stalked even now by outlaw bears, byronically, the school that brought me here.
One small spider must have made a mis-step; snared in invisible doom, it begins to thrash and twitch, and the second largest spider of this windowsill community angles down, more light bleeding from the already anemically pale moon in its wake. Is this what communities do?
Rapt, slack-mouthed at an arachnoid Leone tableau superimposing the grimy but hopefully lit community counselling building my window looks down on, but I don't. The little spider's eight legs rail against what we both now sense to be inevitable, and the machinic, terribly inerrant forelimbs of the giant, a twilight king among spiders, seize it unhesitatingly, the imperious predator's slightly pointed abdomen thrusting in, two further legs locking over the littler, and, soundless snap! the cloak and dagger outline of the head moves in, mandibular fangs I can't make out but convulsively envision sinking, making their mark, injecting their ink.
Their ink is an eraser, and the small spider's unwriting is alwready written as its interior liquifies..
"It's a hard world for little things" clunks out in my attic head like golfclubs falling after a subtle shift in the stasis of a house which is not the apartment I'm standing in; I rewatched Night of the Hunter last week, and now I'm blowing smoke up the ass of the deepening purple evening, tired, tried, faintly sunburnt and smelling of fancy cat slurried with pumpkin, fresh-burning cigarette, lemon slice and lake water.
I'm watching spiders die and kill and wondering which of them I identify with most, and remembering the help meeeeee squeak of that scene in the original fly with colon-clenching and hackle-erecting tense affect.
Somewhere, a child is being beaten. Probably thousands of them, thinking globally, perhaps closing on a million. But, Freud aside, it's nothing to do with me, I am here alone amongst the spiders, and I don't moth but if I had the net tonight I might. Better yet, I'll sit, contemplate a second cigarette, not smoke it, and let my spiders do the mothing while I gingerly observe, expectant of I don't know what.