Kafka, you underplayed your hand,
dealt your man Gregor a low,
below the beetle blow.
How much better
to have made him an Assassin Bug!
Or Robber Fly,
or Death’s Head Moth.
Sure, tough to take his humanity,
but at least he’d have his pride.
“One morning,
after a night of uneasy sleep,
Gregor Samsa woke to find
he’d been transformed
into a killer bee!
So great! His family
trembled before that quivering
abdomen of horror.
Puissant, glorious –
death from above.”
100 years is enough wallowing
in despair, Franz. Time for “closure,”
or moving on, or whatever.
At least make him a praying mantis,
all proudly greened and sticked and mandibled.
At least let him die
In his lover’s arms.
For April Poem a Day
qbit 
A collage of creative surrealism tones that speak with color and humor. I love this poem. 🙂
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Hahaha! Will be reading yours shortly.
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🙂
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Been digging into the darkness I see, Randall. I wondered, as I was reading his weird little book, what would it have signified if Gregor had stayed unmorphed, and everyone else woke as cockroaches … or beetles … or rolling stones.
This is a great reflective piece, addressing the oddest of cruel irony. Take a (well-deserved) bow.
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Interesting ideas, but… nah; he’s a cockroach because they made him a cockroach because he let them make him a cockroach, and because Prague makes one write about cockroaches. The thing about dying in his lover’s arms, however, has merit. (Love this poem!)
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Hahaha! Thanks. I like the thinking about Prague.
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A great, solid ending! Great job!!
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