my waking dream

I'm quiet and you wonder why
but if i talk i let out the spiders
octmandablic crawling on my tongue
eight tiny stings as they inject their young.
The warmth of saliva nourishes the arachnid foetus
as it grows, absorbing the nutrients of my flesh.
From within my taste buds it feasts inexorably
until its time to hatch from its womb
Clawing at the original infestation
Ripping the flesh aside with hundreds of filament legs
miniature tarantella tap dances across the bitter sweet divide
curling the pink meat aside to taste the oxygen.
They come, invasion, death and rebirth with each word uttered
each soiled phrase coursing through the electron pathways
causing outbreaks of festering insects in each retracted node
and in my cornea, biding their time, waiting
for me to speak, erupting through my pupil and caressing my iris in their blood stained mandibles.

Pleasant dream i know, in waking moments i almost forget
as i drift, in psychosis or sleep, i can feel the flickers
gentle stirrings of claws and araneid toe nails
stretching as i slip into the daily coma
This night is no different, the wind bites against
the panes of glass, whipping up a howling whistle
that echoes in the skull making even the spiders flinch
and my sinuses bleed slight rivers of intoxicating
gorgeous copper. The thin stream reaches my upper lip
and i go to collect it with my reaching
tongue but the spiders get there first, crawling up my
face and capturing the slow trickle in its pincers,
red juice repeated in its octagonal sight-line
sipping my flesh to create its own
like a fine wine bottle for seconds of eternity
I slip even out of this, reaching for the window
to open it the hairs on my forearm stand to attention
dissenting rand and file crippled by the slow decay
of the vision; and of the flesh. Hand touching the
cold plastic drawing me back to sensation

I grasp,. twist and push, the chill hits with
freedom, brushing away the cobwebs entwined
in my medulla oblengarta but the spiders survive
bunkering in the recess memory, that abysmal
short term construct that likes to forget.
Soon the wind becomes the norm and they
and my body adapt. I lay down and
close my eyes, but not my mind. the sense
of feel, heightened trace brush strokes of the
father across my ear lobe in a sensual
caress of brisk slides slipping down to
the crown of my forehead, in the dark
no less, enthroned on the top of my
stilted skull, looking down at the
grimace i wear as my tongue flits
from tooth to tooth brushing off the
suffocating insects, choking me in
their dark black oesophagus mass