Lovers' Quarrel
Author's Note: Enjoy the poem and R&R.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to or of the House of the Dead series.
Summary:
A poem based on the ascent of the Lovers, set during The House of the Dead 4.
A lost leap taken to a hurtling construction elevator during a sudden quake. The arachnid newlyweds,
joined by prickly parasitism, crasheth up the shaft, straight out of a movie, bearing goliath exo-
prostheses. The lecherous thorax-rider purses and smacks his rouged human lips purposely astern his
widow's amputated bulky abdomen. Sixteen unblinking eyes between them, they peruse their pilloried
prey, run astray the underground escape channels. She delivers pointed, girder-goring footsteps,
slashing metal, yet desiring flesh. Squalid birth'd, her premature young climb through bullet-cluttered
earth recesses to the above-world, born only to die flickering submachine-deaths.
They scale the dimly lit steel bones of a hell-bound urban dregscape, cuticles indurate from the
epidemic-laced claws of carcinization. Ambushing raid's end overhead the intruders, the female gnashes
snapping spinneret-jaws and vomits forth her silk trellis. Quadruple ferrous tresses bind a hollow egg
sac. A missed catch. Hazardous, hissing spiders. They feast not before the loathsome clattering fall.
The orb-weavers weaveth their own consequent demolition. Woes woven with weaving withers.
Web-wrung lair buried beneath the unchained, mentored anger of two emptied clips.
Squashed male chauvinism.
This breadwinner's demise dooms the tarantulas two.
The woman has no patience for the killing lethargy of he who wraps himself in the veneer of hers.
Gold-spun incredulity in the nuclear shadow of a dead financier.
No time for action heroics.
They were six thousand eight hundred five, born once, twinned to each other.
We cannot procreate, for we are barren. What is it to be barren, but to procreate?
So odious, the megrim in the tunnel.