This earthy dog has killed it dead,
the ugly, giant spider,
the legs are scattered on my bed,
the rest somewhere inside her.

The ugly, giant spider's
dead, and flaccider than life,
the rest, somewhere inside her's
just a metaphor for strife; it's

dead, and flaccider than life,
the swelly belly's still grey-brown
and just a metaphor for strife,
it is the world, turned upside-down.

The swelly belly's still grey-brown;
and still the same in all its parts,
it is the world, turned upside-down
and inside out, and what of hearts

is still the same in all their parts
when they've been swallowed up inside
and inside out?  And what of hearts
is left when they've been unable to hide;

when they've been swallowed up inside,
consumed like any other food,
and left, when they've been unable to hide
is mortal essence -- meat or food?

I am the partly-eaten spider
legs are scattered on my bed,
and the living doesn't matter;
earthy dog has killed it dead.

©  Copyright, 2000; Malcolm Beckett