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Kingdom of Worms

Vol. XXVII, no. 2

Peter Conners

       And beetles and grubs. And everything. The city left piles of autumn leaves, one thousand pounds of snow turning them into gelatinous muck ghettos on every curb. I wonder what crawls over what in there, this march, fat juiciest nutrients going where? Queen and king. Worker worm, sexy millipede. In this battle for existence, servant ants drizzle water over soldier ants while concubines dream of being soldier ants and soldier ants dream of their next drizzle Š. Oily and meager. Everything comes before death. It is sunny and the world is dozing in filth: Wear your boots and kick the shit out of a dying kingdom today. It is joy to be godlike just for fun. Lick a wasp stinger and listen to its secrets. Boil the hive for soup. Now you are ready to run for mayor of your own sweet dung heap. It is easy; if elected we promise to kick the shit out of every other dying kingdom until there is nothing left but this one of worms, scum of the earth, one deity and four baited hooks. We will hold a feast in your honor, don¹t you know? You are the main dish.