torpedo to death
hands like stealth bombers
coming together at the point-of-impact
like a eunuch on Fridays
or any other day for that matter...
The fool spares the mosquito,
after all, it is my blood
that runs through
blood relations that count
a family lineage you hold on to
more out of habit than longing or
belonging for that matter...
That bastard philosopical insect
sat on your thigh
how many of my brothers
sisters must have tasted of this
delightfully bitchy, Mangalorean blood.
It convulsed at the thought
and you unwittingly slapped your thigh
like a high-five
to long lost relatives
It was, in some way, even though
it was sucking your blood. More like...
at long last!
than long lost
That bastard mosquito on your thigh.