Dung Beetle Poem by Mark Heathcote

He touched the hem of her skirt
She burrowed hermit crab-like, rattling
Don't don't—I'll hurt you, where it hurts?
"Manhood's a sensuous thing, a clay pipe
… She can smoke it,
He thought in his very simple insect mind.
But please don't castrate it, don't break it".
He touched the hem of her skirt once more
Her knees knocked, but parted outward, then back in?
Don't demons either require legs to walk?
Or bellies to crawl
And sonar, wings like bats to steer
Don't they need both a stomach and a mouth?
To defecate to sprout out their troubles.
Don't they need keen eyes to search out those innards?
And find me;
Your secret blind spot scratched and itched
He touched the hem of her skirt once more
And then she scampers dung beetle-like,
Dragging his sorry carcass his body
She said nutrition is a word
But what I need is dirtier, more substance
I need the flesh of your bones
The morrow of your existence
Splurged across my own
Before, I, we both decompose.