Situation Normal. Atmosphere Breathable. Brainstem Injected. Dialogue Engaged.
Wednesday, June 08, 2005

Love and Venom

I had a spectacular arachnoerotic vision. I know my future. I have plans this weekend.

Next Saturday I'll take a walk across the street. A narrow strip of deciduous trees separates the Des Plaines River from River Road. I've never been down there, but I know what to expect.

I'll see a sluggish river clogged thick with algae. Fallen tress will lay across the banks, their former apexes now drowned in the lazy, murky current. Fractured stumps will fight a losing battle against the slow rot of humidity and insect infestation. The air will stink of decay and beaver shit. Stagnant green puddles will breed the first wave of this year's mosquito pestilence. The proof of their existence will be the manifestation of swirling clouds of infant insects tasting sun and diesel exhaust as their inborn bloodlust drives them to hot mammals.

It'll be a steamy afternoon. The sun will not blink, and the air will not budge. I'll be soaked in perspiration by the time I discover my plot. My search will conclude when I find a rare weedless patch of mud hiding lukewarm under shade. With branches and twigs I'll lay a thatched nest in the brackish sludge. After I shed my clothing, I'll lay myself naked face up in my bed. The mud will creep between my toes, into my armpits, and throughout my hair. Silt will cradle my balls.

Then, I will wait.

It may take a minute. It may take an hour. But I know the slow rhythm of my lungs and the gentle flutter of my eyelids will send an imperceptible message to my soul kin, driving them skyward. They will wake from their secret slumber and alight to the sky, a horde unspeakable. Millions of black eyes and billions of tiny bristles will quiver and flex, and they will come to touch me.

People hate spiders. Fearsome, ugly little monsters. Eight legs, a thousand eyes, and bad intentions. "I don't care if it eats flies, crush the fucking thing!" you say. Not I. Oh no.

When I see the graceful nimble prancing of eight legs, my soul is filled with ballet. When I see the spiraling webs, pirouette. When I witness the frantic scuttle to pounce upon prey, allegro. The flurry of attack upon the surprised dinner, entrechat. When the prone is spun for the pantry, coupe jete. The return to the nexus, promenade. Danseur noble.

My spiders will fly. On butterfly wings delicate and beautiful they will soar, fluttering under the sultry heat, not wilting, never tiring. They've amassed from the world over, a genetic message itching deep within their little brains, telling them: "Go there." All types, all species. Orb weaver, tarantula, recluse, funnel weaver, wolf, and garden. All harmonious, all cooperative, emerging from cocoons where their wings grew. A genetic marriage of the lepidoptera and the arachnids.

The afternoon sky will darken as the converging swarm swirls above. From every direction the sound will grow in volume. Not buzzing, not chirping, not scraping: Shuffling.

Finally, my flying spiders will descend for love. They'll dance across me, nipping and tickling and kissing. They'll drink my sweat and caress my pores. The sounds of crinkling paper mache will soothe my ears; a concerto of their collapsed wings sweeping across their neighbors' flexing limbs. My mouth will open and the chosen will offer themselves to me as sacrifice, crawling into my mouth, stopping on my tongue as they wait for my gleaming jaws to render them. My orgy. As they dance, I will harden, and I will come. They will drink. I am the seed, and they are the womb. I will sleep.

Next time, there will be an army. In twenty-five years, my family of human children will walk down to the river, and my next generation will resume the spawning ritual. My legacy, my eternal life.
9:40 AM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm


June 08, 2005 10:58 AM, Blogger Lance Manion said...

Um, not to harsh on your buzz, but I think spiders are the reason god invented flame throwers.

Just saying.

June 08, 2005 12:20 PM, Blogger OldHorsetailSnake said...

Anything, just as long as they eat the fucking mosquitoes.

(P.S. Not all spiders are cooperative. Some are black widowed.)

June 08, 2005 1:23 PM, Blogger Isabella said...

hot. smokin'.

it made me want to get laid. immediately.

fucking long-distance relationships fucking grumble this is bullshit fucking why now fucking crap stupid fucking canadian fucking border fucking

wait, your writing did this to me. fuck you.

June 08, 2005 3:45 PM, Blogger Lostinspace said...

ballet? in confess i usually run in the other direction. one time, when i was a kid, a HUGE furry-ish spider was on my brother's head. he just flickered it off.

June 08, 2005 3:48 PM, Blogger Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm said...

Lance, flamethrowers are for steak.

Hoss, you're a good man. The widows will be good to me. I know.

Isabella, you're welcome, sweetheart.

Ameca, I had to use an online ballet dictionary for that paragraph. I actually hate ballet, but I needed it to suit my nefarious purposes this morning. Only ballet would suit.

June 08, 2005 4:19 PM, Anonymous Bobby said...

I just want to dip a glass in there and have me some of that.

June 08, 2005 5:30 PM, Blogger alice said...

ok ok, am i the only one who had to yak after reading this? i suppose whilst petting your eight legged coconspirators, you are donning a beautiful punchinello suit. could that post get anymore creepy?!

June 08, 2005 7:57 PM, Blogger Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm said...

Oh my god, like, I know! I was so disgusted that I had to scour myself with coarse sandpaper just to like, get the imaginary filth off, you know?

So, you totally yakked? Totally? Like, what did you eat?

If you're hungry, I got some punchinello jello here for your cramhole.

You suck at being a goth.

June 08, 2005 8:46 PM, Blogger Wardo said...

Alice, you got owned.


June 08, 2005 9:34 PM, Blogger Dave Morris said...

Eight legs gross me out.
Although I am a leg man,
there are no beavers.

Haiku is not my strong suit. Neither are spiders.

June 08, 2005 10:47 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

spiders with wings. just another thing i don't want to have to think about.

June 08, 2005 11:06 PM, Blogger simpleton said...

You trying to out-creep me?

You win.

June 08, 2005 11:51 PM, Blogger Kilroy Trout said...

Nice writing.

I want seconds--more please.

June 09, 2005 1:32 PM, Blogger Windjammer said...

Spiders didn't creep me out...until now. Kind of X-Files ish. Reminded me of the one with the dude that made himself a cocoon out of wads of paper for some reason.

June 10, 2005 7:14 AM, Blogger alice said...

i didnt realise i gave the impression i was a goth. shame on me for posting in your blog.

by the way, my favourite colour is pink, i love rainbows and happiness, and you suck at the insults.

June 13, 2005 2:48 PM, Blogger Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm said...

Alice, it was the black corset that gave the impression.

Sorry for being an asshole. That was mean.


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