The Spider Butter Flies

[crow]

The Spider Butter Flies

When you bite yourself, what will you be?
The urge to “slice and taste the fat of me”
has been debated since there were debates. 
Some died young and others in old age;
Some returned all gold and some were lazy.
Centuries of governments where monarchies
failed, led to a pattern of golden ages 
where the dyed and eyeless secrecy 

was unveiled. We all need to eat 
our guts and then like prey return
to formless biologic pools. To taste
ourselves, to die in rapture, to obtain
the consequence of urgency the state 
that whips our naked flanks to purgatory:
death, rebirth, bitter, fatty, sweet. 


As much was written on their angels’ feet.

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This is part of my never-ending quest to endorse the English spondee and to write pretty, weird sci-fi sonnets.

[CRNDLSM]

The Spider Butter Flies

When you bite yourself, what will you be?
The urge to “slice and taste the fat of me”
has been debated since there were debates. 
Some died young and others in old age;
Some returned all gold and some were lazy.
Centuries of governments where monarchies
failed, led to a pattern of golden ages not a fan of repeating ages, and monarchies feels clunky 
where the dyed and eyeless secrecy 

was unveiled. We all need to eat 
our guts and then like prey return not sure about eating my own guts, what would digest them
to formless biologic pools. To taste
ourselves, to die in rapture, to obtain
the consequence of urgency the state 
that whips our naked flanks to purgatory:
death, rebirth, bitter, fatty, sweet. 


As much was written on their angels’ feet.


The rhythm is nice.  Sometimes though if it's too bouncy I lose track of what I'm reading, really like the last two lines as they are.  Not sure if I can help with making myself understand what I've read, but it sounds good.  Thanks for posting

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This is part of my never-ending quest to endorse the English spondee and to write pretty, weird sci-fi sonnets.

[crow]

not sure about eating my own guts, what would digest them

That’s the kind of question any intelligent caterpillar should be asking itself.

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The idea is that the larval stage of this intelligent creature ignites its metamorphosis by tasting its own fat. To do that it has to bite itself. It then cocoons and reemerges as an intelligent butterfly. It’s a pretty silly take on the ouroboros. I just was trying to see if there was anything interesting here.

[CRNDLSM]

Thank you for clarifying, it is a lot more interesting now

The Spider Butter Flies I didn't know what to Google, spider butterflies don't seem to be a real thing,  is spider butter a thing? The title definitely throws me off, maybe something besides spider?

When you bite yourself, what will you be?
The urge to “slice and taste the fat of me”
has been debated since there were debates.  
Some died young and others in old age;  because the goop is a death to rebirth
Some returned all gold and some were lazy. Gold and lazy don't contrast enough for me
Centuries of governments where monarchies
failed, led to a pattern of golden ages how about 'stages'
where the dyed and eyeless secrecy this whole sentence is confusing actually, is this sentence supposed to represent the ouroborous in some way?

was unveiled. We all need to eat 
our guts and then like prey return this is a cool image to biologic pools
to formless biologic pools. To taste
ourselves, to die in rapture, to obtain
the consequence of urgency the state  
that whips our naked flanks to purgatory: purgatory throws me off, I can see how it's related but initially am taken other places
death, rebirth, bitter, fatty, sweet. 


As much was written on their angels’ feet.  
 I like this last line but written and angels and feet don't seem to go together.

I like the sounds and the idea, but do get confused while reading

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This is part of my never-ending quest to endorse the English spondee and to write pretty, weird sci-fi sonnets.

[crow]

I’ve written lots of scifi sonnets. This is one. It’s kinda a boring one.

But there’s a neat idea in it that, granted, needs more fireworks.

Here’s the question: what would it be like if there was an intelligent butterfly species?

I’m guessing it’d be intelligent as a caterpillar, and then again as a butterfly, and in between it would be soup in a cocoon. This isn’t a poem that needs attention. There’s nothing particularly lovely about it. There’s nothing gruesome, either. It’s rather inert.

I’m fine with that, but also am open to the idea that I can push it into something more interesting.