The spider from the gut spins the web.
The wine from the jug spins the head.
The word from the mouth spins the tale.
From the sky to the earth the glider tailspins.
“I am not here,” inside the head you hear
the devil say, “the world to unconfuse.
The failure of all being being the bomb,
I am but the fuse. Each life born to die.
The rock to crumble. The star to rumble
through the eons to the ashes in its mouth.
Only love breathes eternal; although none
understand why love –
worse than death –
forever and always hurts.”
The spider from the gut the corpse spins. The
wine from the jug plots against the heart spins.
The devil inside, the nausea to ease,
now and again a new tale spins.
Willie Smith
aiurea press 