On A Dead Collector
His body a compendium of webs,
his centipedes and lizards eat his eyes.
His boa wraps herself around his thighs
basking in warmth that cools as his blood ebbs
down through his veins. The tiny geckos chew
his fingers to the bone, leave scraps behind.
Tarantulas and scarab beetles find
what's left. It isn't much. They eat him too,
according to their needs. She squats. Her tooth
in his dead hand that held her all too tight.
She loved him, he provoked her to the bite.
His Widow. Once in name, but now in truth.
Though he loved all his creatures. Daily fed
them when alive and now he feeds them dead
This was a response to Neil tweeting a link to a story which he then later tweeted was a foaf that crops up every few years. But I don't have to worry, because it's better as a poem than as something which might actually have happened.