Mosquito lands on my left knee. Feel my hairs tremble. Lying flat on my back. Approaching the place where sleep and mad insight merge, that’s where I am, flat on my back, breathing deeply meditating sleep kind of breathing, no body, gone to the deep place. Mosquito trembles knee hairs and pierces. Begins sucking my blood. Have at it, Bug. I’m not swiping at you, not even lifting a knee to shake you off. Have the fuck at my blood, bitch bug.
Beetle, a giant crusty thick chunky beetle walks up my inner thigh, towards my shorts, and up my shorts like it’s a cave to explore, up my leg under my cave shorts toward my left nut. Go, Bug, explore. Explore my balls, Bug, Nut Bug, do what you need to do on your little journey of yours, innocent or possibly give me some disease or lay your eggs under my skin, have the fuck at it, Nut Bug, I’m not scratching, or flicking or throwing off my shorts, not doing it. Have at my thighs and nuts, Mr. Nut Fucking Bug, have at my shit, explore your own little beetle way and it’s all good, not breaking out of this numb deep gone place.
Flying late August flit-bug, flits around in spasm circles, lands on my upper lip, hits a tooth and flies dramatically to the back of my throat. Have at it, Bug. Mr. Throat Bug, walking down my throat, will eventually drown in saliva and die in a scary, dark place, will die a bug death and be resting in peace near my Adam’s apple, all cloggy. Sure, Throat Bug, do it up. Have at it, Bug.
Such a glorious beheading!
(Precarious Birch still from Beyond the Valley of the Dolls, screenplay by Roger Ebert)