Spiders (poem)

It takes a lot of writing

To get the spiders out of my brain.

They are crawling around inside

the twenty-four inch


Of my cranium.


I don’t even know it,

half the time.

Not until their eight legs

Land, trembling upon the paper

In a black spatter of ink.


There are spiders

Crawling up my water spout.

I wash them down my drain,

But they just keep coming.


There are spiders, creeping

Over the face of my lover as she sleeps


Crawling over my face

As I snore, and twitch, dreaming of spiders.


They can clog my throat,

If I keep my mouth open.

Just as they can clog my mind,

If I don’t wash them out

With sweat, ink and soul.


Spiders in my brain. Spiders in my attic.

Spiders in my automobile, coach and train.

Spiders in my basement, silent and static.


There is a cacophony of wet silk,

vibrating inside my ears,

All the time.


I am a willing fly,

Forever caught and wriggling within the net

Of decadent creation.



Copyright 2019. Tylor James. 

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