Flies on the lip of my coffee cup, dancing with their sick, fat, bodies
They're on my legs, in my hair, stuck in my imagination like gum to shoe
I can't stand to look at them, dancing in the air, landing with no care, putrid
Wipe the crap out of the corners of my eyes, out of the crevasse of my head
Empty empty empty
I somersault from the summit, crack back on every cornice
Fall where every wild thing will find me, bury me with their teeth, a proper burial
The flies will then come, even though they were not invited