Worm,
hear my command.
Move toward me
with musical scorpion hips,
slick segments
silked with a razored slither.
Such a man deserves
only one thing.
You're an engine
hissing huckleberry smoke,
sneaking snarls rolled like cigarillos,
cracked glass and elastic slap-spandex skin.
You've been closeted with curiosity,
brushed with the bronze of a false phoenix
ignited by the hot night's
acrid summer fire.
No venom for the viper.
I'll hum with the thunder,
dreams dominated
by machinery's harmonious hum,
whitewater highways pouring
down your veins,
and the clack-clack-clack
of mechanical stars
rising to glory,
bursting
with infinite sarcasm.
Sidle, sidle, sidle,
sway—
snakestruck, recklessly wrenched
far from the faint of heart.
Worm, you'll get
what you deserve.