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The Bug

There on my head
Is a bug in a bed
Made of sticky thread.
When I prepar-ed
To squish him dead,
This is what he said

"Yo, my name is Ed,
The cousin of Fred.
He lived on a head
- totally red.
Got squashed dead
And oh how he bled."

"Now my uncle Ned,
He was struck by lead,
So the obit read.
Gun aimed at the head
- my uncle's shed."

"My cousin Fred,
The aforesaid,
That bug was bred
From Jane and Ted.
Both flicked from the head
Of which they tread.
Spiraling down they sped
- went splat, legs outspread."

This is what he said,
that bug on my head.
For his life he pled.
So I instead,
Took this hexaped
And with him fed
my mouse named Sed.

- roy p johnston, jr
march 3, 1997

The Dance

Filmed glass, dancing sun.
Hand wide, nervous red run.
Run from green, run to me.
Gaming yellow hunts with thee!

Playground hot, mind confused.
Must retreat to the blues
Steel blue, tar dark
Always cool, ever numb.

Floating detached, solid enough.
Keeps out the dance.
The race secretly watch.
Miles away, close to touch.

Out of choas, red will dance.
Auburn blisters seek a trance.
See them dart on oaken boards.
Feel them play on flecked floor.

The eye catches the steps.

Fleeting instant, form revealed.
The line awakens the mind,
Stumbles in heavy urn.
Orders servents, home return.

To face hues in pounding steps.
Jealous night, once friend
Unrelenting fingers embrace
Keeps me in empty grace.

Feather switch, heavy lever.
Breath trigger, steel forever.
Air stuck, leaded lungs.
Lean into the door, give it life.

Will it take on life?
Will it take life on?
Will it on... take life!
Life will take it on!

Steel probes strike the heart.
Stone body awaits decision.
Your not mine, not this time!
Soul released, kicked into the fray.

Dance degenerate, swirling mass
Grab the table, defy the eddie.
Do not lose it, Do not lose it.
gone again, the dance.

- roy p johnston, jr
october 22, 1997

The Bug © Copyright 1997 by Roy P. Johnston, Jr.
The Dance © Copyright 1997 by Roy P. Johnston, Jr.

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