~=: Beetle in a Basket :=~
A blowtorch, some pliers, some skin, and a scream,
C sharp pitch, the voice chipped flint,
smells of dry piss and fear of a cat; scraped off a shoe
a click prick’s will to politik, I think,
so spoke Zarathustra — to sign a tear in the lake –
to be remembered by a cured black-foot’s mind.
A melting totem carved in soap
and precisely positioned, gravity-wise,
relative to a legless one, who leaned and said,
“Wave, I can’t die,”
Then died anyway.