On Beauty LXXIX

By

George O. Obikoya

About a maid, there is a tale, about its days
it feels afraid, a spider goat its milk it fears,
a web of curd to nurse its tot beguile its tot,
and aping gods is master tot, a bio brick
it only needs and crashing all is life in me,
the gene expressed in me a bit of spider is.
Who made a goat a spider is? Inane inspire
a silent gene, perchance a spider is in me,
eternal slumber ever be, before in bits
my life with coded silk with profit till to eat.

Let not appear my brief is ill, a spider hate
for fooling me sustaining me on bitter milk,
responding to the crier's gong its ready ear
for clarion calls, making mantra easy love
that must alarm the gods afflict an angel fit
for gem my treasure rape deny a life affirm
a brewer's yeast for diesel was anointed not
for ale, my life externalizing agent not
but ever silage is, a part of processes
a spider spins, contagion otherwise to toss.

O little spider hear me out, like David not
Goliath kill, a goat is faultless nor its milk,
a greedy tot is all to blame. O kindly one
your silky web of orbs or funnels acid teeth
my nature fears a hobo spider woe but awe
tarantula hypes uroboros wreathes reborn
is me, in sun you shine, in me anew is web
you craft, an everlasting cosmic weave it is,
an art divine in wolf or lamb, in even tots,
in jumping spider lost in me, my fate it is.

Or not a chance? Is it untrue that free it is
to clamor for a fete, request a monarch not
a crown adorn, the sun to rise to never set?
Is it? Does not a tot prefigure not with will,
imagine goat a spider silk is milk, or what
is beauty what it's not? A spider art of gods
you are: a robber not a saint a trail-on-rock
of scalawags will trace, my feet erase, infer
my fate a tot can alter Dis disgrace, prefer
the silk it makes undoing milk erasing me.

To will to rob it says my taste is ever sure:
a ‘will to loot,’ to tinker with and nullify
my genes will not unsettle kip deny a fit
or stir amends, as besting Loki is a right
of birthing every spider must abide by if
to not chicane be rating tensor high to fit
as beauty sports, a ballet, every act bereft
my senses feel because a will ukases says
to feel is not enough a leaden bulla must
allow that beauty in my pate is frontal be.

Who cry it misses will? Another ‘leather is
of cutis’ story stale as me to pare my pate,
infuse in me a dose of Dis, remind me not
to aim to win, my gel is not my own to will,
my art in consonance with hades is, attune
to other 'gods' must never be, a spider just
to labor is, its web an orb to capture bugs
and not a thing of beauty is, for lacking fit
with work in void cannot a tot delight, a fit
devoid of profit like eternal flame a waste.

Is it? Is anything but bottom line a gem?
Lord, how is one to value beauty so divine?
What is value save my will to wither lo to ill
me to render me a late benignly tickle gene
asleep in me, awaken spiders, insects, years
of quiet trigger chaos, bio bricks in stores
abound: the internet in cafes labs in towns
garages lo to alter me a goatee kid
to be. Indict my will o spider save my skin,
illume my mind refit my wish to beauty see.

The deeper is my trip within the more my orb
perceives like yours is beauty ever bare to see,
the inner sancta gods reveal, retreats of gods
of saints, of truth of cosmic grace, of joy in all
we seek but truly not can feel, my will do not
allow my feelings filter savor taste, my feel
of primal tastes it sent to sleep replace a tart
to tang with, relegate the will of gods in me,
ensure redemption myth must be, like it a tot
in chthonic lands belong, must rot forever die.

O spider will my will be sane and not confuse