Hive

Antarctic beaches
and strolled the austral rainforest,

the sabertooths took Manhattan,
and neo-pterodactyls filled the sky.

The last band of humans,
always a colonial species,

like bees, ants and naked
mole rats, cower

in the reclaimed tunnels
of a prairie dog town,

their macho drones
popping up from their mounds,

like one-eyed whack-a-moles,
scenting the newborn Queen,

as she sashays past them
like the girl from Ipanema.

Reduced to the pure simplicity
of gonads, the manly drones

crawl out of the earth
like six-inch phallic glow worms,

dragging their outsize balls,
Jacob Marley style, behind them,

the wymyn jeering that
they were good

for only one thing,
and it wasn't acing SAT tests.

Members of the drone pride parade
corkscrew around each other,

gyrating to orgasm,
checking the hunger

that torments their brethren,
who can no longer resist

the pull of their Devourer,
crawling closer until

their shafts
are too hard to move.

The Queen
snatches them

to her snatch,
her nether lips

claiming them, as she
slides their petrified

aching nine-inch bodies
up and down

the moist passage of her,
penultimate tunnel,

their throbbing shafts,
so ablaze with desire

that they do not resist
when she empties their balls

like a tube of toothpaste
or when she raises their meat

to her thirsty, thirsty tongue,
dissolving and drinking

their transient flesh, as they
become one with

their now bloated Queen,
who sucks off

the stragglers
one by one,

sliding them down
her throat like oysters

lubricated by their own semen,
as she waddles

into the pulsing jungle
in search of the new hive.