Squished Flies
I squished a fly once, with a huge,
what’s that word—
swatter. Its guts got stuck
to the wall, a wing or a limb poking
through the holes of my utensil.
No more buzzing, no more tapping—
soft tapping on my window, and certainly
no more flapping wings; I picked those
off the swatter—flicked them into the air,
nope, they don’t work anymore.
Moment of silence as I scrape the
entrails away (gross), they don’t smell;
but why does puke green ooze from their
wounds – radio-active
waste eating flies, soon to be larger than skyscrapers,
wing-span—covering the skyline. Hovering
in front of the sun; taking subtle revenge
for lost family members, past transgressions
where – the once dominant species – set fire
to each limb and base of the wings; shriveling
appendages and the smell of burnt matches.
I should start building a really
ginormous
fly swatter.
Apr 28, 2012
Apr 28, 2012 at 9:32 PM UTC
Squished Flies
I squished a fly once, with a huge,
what’s that word—
swatter. Its guts got stuck
to the wall, a wing or a limb poking
through the holes of my utensil.
No more buzzing, no more tapping—
soft tapping on my window, and certainly
no more flapping wings; I picked those
off the swatter—flicked them into the air,
nope, they don’t work anymore.
Moment of silence as I scrape the
entrails away (gross), they don’t smell;
but why does puke green ooze from their
wounds – radio-active
waste eating flies, soon to be larger than skyscrapers,
wing-span—covering the skyline. Hovering
in front of the sun; taking subtle revenge
for lost family members, past transgressions
where – the once dominant species – set fire
to each limb and base of the wings; shriveling
appendages and the smell of burnt matches.
I should start building a really
ginormous
fly swatter.
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