There's an astronomical aberration,
unknowable is its name.
So, for Irony's sake, say worm (not snake;
we'll keep the imagery lame).
This worm has an end, an inside and out,
rippley skin and leathery snout.
This worm is quite plump, but shrively too—
which happens to rhyme with point of view.
This worm consumes
This worm gestates
This worm emmits
This worm pulsates
yet
The cruelest lesson we learn from worm
comes from question most kind.
'Fyou're something like me
ya'ask what she seeks,
but wormy, my dear, is blind.
x'(
This poor omnipotent presence
pitifully slithers through dirt—
dirt of the mind, of space and of time
—unbothered by ideas of worth.
So next time the the sidewalk is dry
next time the coiled lay died
turn to the worm, his palace of sky
and all's left will be all right.
alternative title, God is a worman
You see it online, and you think it'll be silly. A question that'll crack Jason up. One he'll ask his siblings to fuck with them. So you slide in next to him on the couch, lay your head on his shoulder, and ask.
Jay, would you love me if I was a worm?
Jason looks at you. You smile, teeth holding your lip to keep the laugh in. You expect him to tickle your side, plaster you to the cushion. Is that one of those internet trends? I swear...
Jason doesn't smile, though. Jason looks at you, his eyes serious.
You love a worm now, he says. Of course I'd love you if you were a worm.
You blink. What is he talking about?
Jay, what do you mean?
Only worms come outta the dirt. Robin was light, but Hood is mud. And you love me. You make sure I eat and drink and sleep. You love me when I'm shriveled up. When I miss the dirt. When I feel cut in half. You hold a worm in your hands and kiss me goodnight.
And here is where he draws you close. Brands your cheek with his breath. You shudder.
I would love you if you slept in the dirt. I would love you if you couldn't work or make spaghetti or change the channel. I'd buy you everything you needed and I make a damn good marinara and I'd build you a little worm-sized remote. I would love you if you were split in half. I'd love both halves of you equally. You do that every day and make it look damn easy when I know it's not. I'd love you no matter what shape you took.
You'll spend the rest of your life convincing Jason he isn't a worm. That loving him isn't loving mud.
Tonight, you hold him tightly, kiss his chest, and take solace in the fact that if you were a worm, Jason Todd would kiss you on all five of your hearts every night.
I Love You Anyway, a romantic poem by famous 17th century eccentric poet Mein
Once, beneath a bridge that's brittle
there lived a guy who's very little
so little was he, it turns out
nobody heard his panicked shout
when on the step of his abode,
rather than his wife, the toad,
a squirming worm wriggled inside
into the hole in which they'd hide
away from all the mean large things
whose heavy boots them danger brings.
The little guy beheld the worm
which was snow-white, just like his s_____,
and, trembling like a dry leaf
he asked it what it did beneath
this bridge, which was a private space,
well-hidden from each other race.
The worm, it squirmed, and in its face
(or lack thereof, as was the case)
the little guy, to his surprise,
he saw a pair of toady eyes!
For, in a bizarre twist of fate,
his wife into a worm was made!
He kissed the worm, and shouted "Hey!
Don't fret, I love you anyway :)”
“Lines to ⸻.” also known as “Sonnet to Byron” written by Percy Shelley (1821, fair-copied in 1822) and published posthumously. Shelley had threatened to give up writing due to his lack of success. Byron’s fame and Shelley’s great admiration for his recent works often frustrated Shelley and worsened his depression, despite Byron generally encouraging him. In an early draft below, Shelley began with the line “I am afraid these verses will not please you, but” before seemingly drawing over it with trees.
“If I esteemed you less, Envy would kill
Pleasure, and leave to Wonder and Despair
The ministration of the thoughts that fill
My mind, which, like a worm whose life may share
A portion of the unapproachable,
Marks your creations rise as fast and fair
As perfect worlds at the creator’s will,
And bows itself before the godhead there.
But such is my regard, that, nor your fame
Cast on the present by the coming hour
Nor your well-worn prosperity and power
Move one regret for his unhonoured name
Who dares these words. — the worm beneath the sod
May lift itself in worship to the God.”
The fair-copy was made about six months before Shelley, Edward Williams, and their boatman Charles Vivien all died in a sailing wreck during a storm while returning from visiting Lord Byron and Leigh Hunt. Thomas Medwin said that Byron never saw the poem, and it’s likely, given that it was never shared or published until long after Byron died (about two years after Shelley).
Sources: Percy’s handwritten draft from the Digital Bodleian Library, MS. Shelley adds. e. 17 p. 94 https://digital.bodleian.ox.ac.uk/objects/0f0cba27-6264-4c4e-8b03-3a83c700c1f5/surfaces/1d16ddc7-3cf9-4c96-b435-36f2077168d1/ - Percy’s handwritten fair copy from the British Library Digitized Manuscripts Collection, Zweig MS 188 https://www.bl.uk/manuscripts/FullDisplay.aspx?ref=Zweig_MS_188&index=16 - Transcriptions from The Manuscripts of the Young Romantics: Percy Shelley, vol. 8 (Garland, 1997) https://archive.org/details/faircopymanuscri0008shel/page/249/mode/1up?q=Sonnet+