Friendlier than we. Names don't have
to be remembered. Messages are chemicals;
the language is universal. They weave through creaks
and caverns in the wood of our porch, unknowing to
our knowing, disgusted gaze and the plan
of insecticide genocide. Do they warn oncomers
and ongoers of the strife ahead and behind—
unknowing of the other's identity, as
their identity is only one? Is it that simple,
that as they share kiss after kiss, ant after ant,
nondiscriminatory, the fight to grow and consume
is so forefront to their minds that it's all that matters?
A life without identity—the obligations in personality
and actions to be fitting to time, region, age, sex, gender,
race, and religion... There is rest for the ants.
There is no rest for the truly wicked.
YOU ARE READING
Piss and Moan
PoetryAlistair enjoys writing poetry despite his parents' disapproval of the feminity they believe it has. Still, he continues, and when he meets a boy, who his parents also disapprove of, he still continues. (I've written this before and it was really re...
