THE ITCH commenced
in the morning of my ass
deep or superficial I
could not discern
from pinkish corners
or the darker core
wherefore this sensation
I dare not suppose
small relief happened
with the passing of gas
like a mini-vacation
or laugh track on the tube
for days a suspicion
of invisible bugs
had flooded my mind
tweaked my skin crazy
I sit and type
these war-torn thoughts
note the swift bite
wreaked piercing
of skin
(oh my God high above,
has a Taliban of bugs
snuck its way in?)
from time to time
there’s this sudden
ambush on a
vulnerable limb
as I send forth
my nearsighted
bleary-eyed scouts
who look-out for
ski-masked
black ants
and transparent
mites who flitter
like jetstreaming
Tinkerbell's tits
and are filled
brimful with
malicious
intent
secret harbingers
of possibly worse,
ongoing assaults into
tight hidden caves
of this worn
down body,
of that portentous
misfortune
I unfortunately
fear.
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