Job 5:6: "how much less man, who is but a maggot - a son of man, who is only a worm!"
Mark 9: 47c-48: hell, where" 'their worm does not die,and the fire is not quenched.'
Astarte's Rapture: A Vision of Worms
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When does one naively wonder (dream – fantasize - envisage)
What the existence of a worm is worth in golden pounds of mire
As it wriggles and coils about within its own filth? – soso pathetic
(as it shrivels in the prisms of sunlight – it must dig deeper – faster!)
Far deeper than a layer of the Earth's nakedly scant clothing
Beneath the core, until the burning is not from the firmament
(No, it is birthed in labor pains of a virgin from the break . . .
The shattering of glass oracles . . . the tear of lustful cards of selfish desires . . .)
And one must wake from the hallucination (and see that it IS the writhing worm)
The writhing worms upon my pale palms . . . they kiss me passionately . . .
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(Fools to be blind as a mole not to see their rotted rosemary chains
And they shriek in desire of a master; And they moan in agony of the whip)
All. At. Once. (Unison) So exquisite . . . to see worms succumb to their own despair
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Death . . . to expire . . . to fade-fall-farfarfar Southeast
Into the raven screeching veins of a sinister Morning Star
(and the black blood shrivels within his body as he grins hellish toothed grins,
like a double-edged sword – a fox before the snared jackrabbit –
comforting the carnage ripped creature with eulogy memoirs coated in hunger pains!)
And the deardeardear Son of Sheol's sunrise kisses my pallid shoulder blades
Whilst hushing unto my ear the promised lies of glee and pleasure -but-
Never a whimper of their temporary freedom from the gloom of the silky worms
As they moan about my body their eternal fiery woes and solicits of a mirthful glimpse
Of the shared yearn for pearly gates within this damned vision of our chosen nightmare
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And they twirl about by fingers as creatures upon amusing displays of power
(But whilst they moan their frail mortal woes with swollen tongues past redemption,
My concave pupils, long blinded in sorrow, glance towards the whispered Northern land)