Tarantula
woke up to a tarantula crawling across my balls.
my first thought was to call an ambulance, police, a fire brigade, exterminator.
to have my balls exterminated.
to call out of the window.
to break the window with my elbow
and jump twenty stories,
nude, spider not relinquishing,
onto a silver car roof.
but it’s been an uneventful and sub-par erotic autumn, winter and now spring.
and I could use something new.
this is ‘kafkaesque’ in the pornhub search bar.
if I get up now
to address the ‘situation’,
I might have to take out the garbage.
there is a mountain of garbage.
pot noodle tins that resemble Beefheart’s or Coleman’s saxophone(s).
I can see one or the other or both of their faces in the rubbish spread behind.
I let the spider waltz parade over me
and think about those peanuts
hanging in the bar last night
behind the boy with earrings.
ABOUT THE ARTIST
Tempest Miller is a writer from the UK. His work has appeared in Boats Against the Current, Swamp Pink and JAKE. He releases a monthly chapbook on Amazon. His Instagram is @tempestm1ller.
Image generated on DreamStudio
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