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Tarantulas of Winter

Winter is coming

Winter is in the air...


Can you feel it

Like nine tarantula legs

crawling around your brain

Raping your medulla,

cerebrum and frontal lobe


Memories forgotten and fine, fine, messy tales never told

It'll make up your mind

Poking through your eyes

(God damn)

Preparing you in it's own peculiar way

for the crystallized rain


Six inches of slush and exhaust fumes

on the side of the freeway

see the sideswipe?


Once come the light the flurry the black ice  

Might go on forever understand?  

Coffee your way

Whiskey mine


8 layers on in shadows

Boot tracks tracked inside

Fireplaces and hearths

and for whatever its worth

some pointy headed bastard telling you about Virgil     

And how he almost burned the Aeneid  


how warm it could be if you could do the same to this conversation

put away your cynicism

until you got no place to escape

the lock's are frozen

so is every breath you take  


Just about to break the gambit in pace 

Until you go bullet-shot running screaming

across the dear lady's suicide lake  


Turn of a jump and a sinking wrist

Ashtrays pouring over on dialogues master plans

and secret inlays and recordings of people once known

who tell us this --  


Excuse this Shakespeare-stained wretch

This televised blood and

this civilized death


The mud and gold are now on the same crest

But who controls the tarantulas of winter

When it comes to something like this?

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© 2020 by a.p. duvall.
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