Some Flarf

A break from the usual cut-ups of blog posts. So today, a flarf poem:

Cicadas Shells

in its nymphal stage, slowly emerging

half-way outside of its own shell

placed on the tongues of deceased persons

to see a cicada shed its skin,

in all but one burrow

            with white, pale  blue, orange

chocolate brown eyes

thick on the ground

live underground as nymphs 

for most of their lives

            can be found on the trunks 

of trees;  veins

in the cicada’s wings

            fill up like heat

to collect them

can be found molting an inch:

deformed cicada

at Pine Crest Cemetery—

            two females

found fortuitously in vegetation

constructing an exit tunnel