My So-Called Larval Life

 

The executive wanted her larvae so I purchased the artificial diet

There was a gourmet guy selling vac-paks – no molting in the mouth

I acquiesced to the cubicle I salivated for mulberry leaves

 

Lemon yellow & lungless I breathed through small holes

Chewed on Instagrammed instar memories

Oh  – happy moth memories

 

Today in captivity I stare at pixels

Come visit my thorax come sleep in a roomier skin

We’ve lost the ability to fly

A spinning black – a production cycle

 

 

“jam bat echolocation”

 

Genital moths in these undercurrents sound

One zaps the other in a disco fight

In these frequencies the skin of light jumps

Echoes migration of cave etching

Sonographic teeth on the radio

 

Insects’ lips fight ultrasound with ultrasound

Feel it suck and bounce

Grab the spiny-legged

Rasp of a scaly abdomen

My species a one-click strategy

My sensitive species

 

Hunting we smash records vibrate vaginas

Any bat can squeak

Evolutionary arms race to the artificial version

Simple probing extremely simple

The pitch of a neuron crescendo

The courtship call we produce

 

source texts: 

http://www.nature.com/news/hawkmoths-zap-bats-with-sonic-blasts-from-their-genitals-1.13333

http://www.nature.com/news/moth-smashes-ultrasound-hearing-records-1.12941

http://www.nature.com/news/1999/990401/full/news990401-5.html

A Death’s Head Moth Visits California

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I am trying to understand you, moth

Your brown blink of dun fur dotted white buzzing

You, dead on my office floor

You, taunting me on the house porch

Who do you carry?

 

The Internet tells me you bear a skull on your thorax

But I see a smiling pig snout as if you welcomed the down and out and muddy

Do I know you? Did we meet on the beached fishing boat in Monterosso?

I sense you have a message transcending statistical data

 

We are both honey-named short proboscis Medusas

Larvae for the undercurrent’s meat

Taxonomical aberrations

Pierce the wax, damage the fruit

 

The myth of my Italian heritage says I may have the malocchia

To be stalked by a death’s head moth

To be stalked by wings I must carry a horn

Stout tongue of the stigma

If the oil forms an eye, your fur is mine

 

Myth says moths are dead souls

Your body was as intact as a specimen

As I set you in the wastebasket

Where is the apparition you’ve been carrying?

I want to talk to her.

 

image from http://greenbuzzz.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/11/beerobber-moth.jpg