Hanging Out

Lolling on his gossamer wings. Like a trapeze artist. Like an octopus of the air. Like a gymnast with eight limbs.

The spider is a hand with eight fingers. Fingers, hanging on to semi-invisible strings. Fingers, playing the strings like a celestial guitar.

The spider is an artist. He makes his own music. Weaves his own flying carpet.

Between playing his guitar and flying his carpet he waits for food. Mind food that he eats and feels replenished.

The spider is a creature of space. He's the king of his corner. He comforts between corners. Not in them. Between corners he hangs his wings. And then hangs from them. Like an angel, semi-fallen. Hanging, between heaven and earth. From his wings.

The spider is a space traveller. He sees a lot. Doubts a lot. But the quivers of his celestial strings he knows like the back of his hand.

The spider is a collector. Of minor things. Subtleties. Jetsam washed into his web by the winds. In the ageing, weary light of the evening his web is like a Christmas tree, dangling jewels of stardust, bits of paper and irridiscent insect wings.


  1. I think the new beta blogger system is its own comment moderator...
    I am sorry if you guys can't comment here... blogger honchos say it will become functional soon... how soon I dunno!!

  2. That's a neat skin baby!! Reminds me of sea life and pretty much like ur mind too (calm surface but chaotic core). Ah, the spider's christmas tree but we are all creatures of space. Can do better.

  3. Lovely.

    But a spider is still creepy.

  4. you, Great King, have rendered me speechless.

  5. Cors Lemony, we're all creatures of space but no one quite does it like the spider!

    Long time Nafiza! U mean creepy-cool :)

    ~d, that's quite a feat, no??


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