Mongoose & Cobra
…rising up on a
singular body stalk,
head fanning out,
mesmerizing dance,
swaying back and forth,
like Death’s metronome,
an insinuated fatality,
if and when this
little mongoose decides
to believe the intended
message.
…but generations past
have taught mongoose
that cobra’s transformation
is mere show.
King Cobra
is filled with the
very same fear,
a fear of death,
that she is trying to
project
toward her natural enemy.
Fur rising on his nape,
as his mother’s lessons
return through his blood
and course through his body,
he doesn’t even
have to give consideration
to what his muscles
spring to.
All this towering
serpent knows is
mongoose was there
at one instance,
and now has
his teeth
buried
in her neck.
Suddenly, the writhing
dance of death
begins in dust
and spit
amidst the musty clouds
of dirt
on India’s copper veldt.
As I watch,
feeling now,
my own deadly appetites
rise up and fan out,
a taste coming into
my mouth,
saliva filling up
under my tongue,
this death’s-head
of addiction
rhythmically weaving
its lies,
bobbing for weaknesses,
it’s diseased mind-muscle
spasm,
waiting to strike –
I smirk to myself,
in mongoose-wisdom,
knowing full well
with life’s lessons learned…
…this beast doesn’t stand a chance.
ps52356 