"bluebottle" poems
Every now and then,
Someone lights up your world
Like breaking weather,
Scattering the clouds
And baptizing your soul
In a deluge of colors.
Every now and then,
Someone captures emotions
Like bluebottle flies
In a jar, only to release,
Too delighted ever
To pin them with names.
Every now and then,
Someone dares you to dance
With words or muscle memory,
And laughs with you
When flailing efforts prove
That you almost can.
Every now and then,
Someone glows like traffic lights
And points you to new roads
They've traveled on before:
Ways that part and meet again,
Every now and then.
Jun 20, 2019
Jun 20, 2019 at 10:05 PM UTC
We own a pond;
mottled bluebottle,
flecked in freckles
when the sunlight
skims the surface
between the moss.
I dip a finger inside
and stir. A nebula
swills, swirling like
a whisk of spilt oil
from a water spot
sometimes found
underneath a car.
My fist plunges in,
embalming a gulp;
moss bandages
around the orb that,
withdrawing in drips,
I see a new world
set alight upon it.
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 9:31 AM UTC
There was an old person of Skye,
Who waltz'd with a Bluebottle fly:
They buzz'd a sweet tune,
To the light of the moon,
And entranced all the people of Skye.
1.5k
*Stand me still in swaying grass
on the crest of a smooth esker.
Numb my ears to synthetic noise
so I can embrace the earthly chorus;
Green blades clashing swordlike.
The creak of trees, rooted in the battle.
The flip and twist of a passing bluebottle;
Awkward and disorientated.
Let me breathe deep the same wind
that lends herself to these instruments.
Let me hear the crackle of sun on skin;
The sound of hair electrified,
The thud of chemicals leaping across synapses.
Let me feel truly alive.*
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 4:08 PM UTC
Fourteen years old
and my life was a trap -
My ankle was caught
All red and ragged
In the jaws of an age-old machine
Designed to catch boys.
But there was a missing cog –
a little *****
because there was a way,
(There was a way)
There was a way
to
get away…
College Library,
Domed and dark,
The silence disturbed by a bluebottle’s
Rumble
And the sly ticking of my own gold watch.
Oh! Getting high on the smell of
Other people’s universes,
Tissue thin and
Dogeared immortal -
Gotcha!
I’ve got 'em all!
You can’t contain me in these walls,
I can go an – y -where.
I can get drunk on Holden’s Highballs
Or Sebastian’s brandy,
I can weep at the grave of Ignatius Riley’s
Sexually inappropriate wank-fantasy dog,
I can neatly eat Prufrock’s peach
Or a dismal breakfast in a seaside caff
With Dallow and Spicer
And dear Rosaried Rose
With one eye on the sea and
Some lukewarm tea.
I can spend a season with my namesake,
Far away from Heaven,
And shake hands with Satan as he
Finishes a speech,
Wiping his mouth on a swollen
rock,
Hot as heaven and black as a leech.
I can walk that sheep on B612,
I can whip around the Second Circle
Of Hell
Or lock myself in a toilet
With Franny,
I can live in a garret with a garrulous ****** -
I can be East of Eden,
Wonderland,
I can die in Venice,
I can shoot soldiers in the sand,
I can lust after Lo – lee – ta
Tip of the tongue,
I can be a girl,
I can be a nun,
Blow into a conch,
Diffuse a bomb,
Digest my lunch,
Be a sub,
Be a dom,
I can sparkle here,
I can be free here,
I can just be here
And there are no rules here,
Just one boy
And a book
And a bluebottle
And a watch.
Aw dear -
What a flawed design for a cage!
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 6:59 PM UTC
beneath the daily noise
is the quiet sighing me
floating on a current
of poetic alchemy
i convert the grind
and bustle
into
calm serenity
and post the golden lies
on here, for prosperity.
and then with bluebottle
ink and jellyfish grace
i float away...
to write the insanity of another day..
leaving but a trace
of saltwater tears
in my chosen place...
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 5:15 PM UTC
A fat young woman sat reading her graphic novel
(don't you love it that they call comic books graphic novels
nowadays so as not to offend the mongos who read them?)
- apologies apologies I digress from my narrative I fear -
her eyes followed the words slowly one by one
and her lips very visibly mouthed each syllable
as though such a pathetic process might help the meaning
to sink in at least partially to her poor addled half-educated wits
(in case you haven't worked it out by now I should explain
she was a bit stupid in fact much thicker than two short planks,
but I suppose that's an unkind thing to say really
but what the hell this is ******* free thought association
and stream of ******* consciousness isn't it?)
Bearing in mind that the poor fat cow had a brain
only marginally more adroit than a bluebottle's
she was doing quite well as she had after all
reached as far as page five after only two hours
when something marginally untoward occurred
as she suddenly felt a nasty pain in her tummy
and in some atavistic sort of way that realised she was on
the verge of having a miscarriage which was quite
a shock bearing in mind she didn't even know
she was seven months pregnant at the time
having been unable to read the birds and bees manual
she had been given as a present by her mummy.
But it was just as well taking everything into consideration
bearing in mind she was unmarried (surprise! surprise!)
and had no idea who the father might have been
as (how oh how can I put this delicately?)
she was totally the village bicycle having been ridden by everyone
including most of the teachers at the ******** folks home
where she lived in some squalor at state expense
but never mind as all's well that ends well
as her staggeringly brutal low-iq daddy would have killed her
for bringing shame on the family escutcheon
and because the downturn in the economy
meant that there was a three month wait for a bed
in the nearest mongo maternity ward
so she just kept on reading and would you believe it
she had reached page seven by the time
it was all over apart from the mess on the upholstery.
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 1:59 PM UTC
The day is damp and quiet as I'd noted it usually is
at this time. My brown linen served purpose
of warming me from the wind that hushed
the house but I am leaving his mild comfort
for another.
The truth of the mirror shows my milky feathers
that I'd left on my face from sad infancy.
The kettle wails in an octave of steam and brass
and milk sloshes coolly into its capsule, fault
from my shaking hands - an impressive chip in one glass.
I watch London spin its television reruns
on the other side of the pane and challenge a stray cat
to a staring competition. Chewed ear and licked fur.
Across the lawns creeps the sure squint
of the rising sun and my tea is left unattended.
I begin to prepare
gathering towels from the cupboard, draping
them over my arm as though I am a huntsman.
The harsh material peppers my skin and I slap at it with disgust.
Like a bluebottle scuttling greedily
through the ***** hairs.
The trusted thickness works well as I cram
them against the slits in the doors.
Not even voices should seep through.
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 7:37 PM UTC
BROTHER BLUEBOTTLE
A bluebottle emerges
from a hedge
like an expensive and
repulsive flying jewel.
It settles upon
my ring finger.
I wear it with
fear and delight.
Its iridescence
bewitches.
This, the first
bluebottle I'd ever seen.
I thought they grew
in hedges.
I had a lot to learn.
It buzzes about
in my brain
as if 50 years
had not passed.
Welcome back
brother bluebottle.
It's good to see you
still alive.
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 8:29 PM UTC
hello bluebottle
sitting atop my canvas
shifting all around
what do your two red eyes spy
can you see me staring back
and what are you waiting for
all alone high above me
fidgeting and impatient
but of course you are quite right
to be so very careful
for that is a newspaper
rolled up in my hand
Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 12:37 AM UTC
BROTHER BLUEBOTTLE
A bluebottle emerges
from a hedge
like an expensive and
repulsive flying jewel.
It settles upon
my ring finger.
I wear it with
fear and delight.
Its iridescence
bewitches.
This, the first
bluebottle I'd ever seen.
I thought they grew
in hedges.
I had a lot to learn.
It buzzes about
in my brain
as if 50 years
had not passed.
Welcome back
brother bluebottle.
It's good to see you
still alive.
Jan 23, 2019
Jan 23, 2019 at 5:25 PM UTC
There I was..
Running about like a blue arsed fly.
Then I stopped
And wondered
Why?
Now
I'm taking it easy it pleases me no end.
I spend my days in that haze of being lazy
It's crazy..I know
But sometimes
You just got to
Take it
Slow.
I was never a blue bottomed bluebottle
(and throttle rhymes with that..but I'm not using it)
Life's not full of ****
Well maybe a bit but mostly it's good.
And I'm sure if you could and you can..
..come lay with me on the beach..get a tan
You ain't got to hurry..no worry..
I'll wait
Contemplate
And rest.
And I'm the best..
..at that.
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 3:11 AM UTC
A tired fly
Flew past my nose
Its buzz was low
Its speed was slow
It drifted through the heavy air
I know, I saw it go
On by
The cat was sleeping
On a chair
Just lying there
Without a care
Until the fly flew past her nose
To end her doze
The cat she froze
Her green eyes widened
And turned all cold
As cold as gold
If truth be told
The tired fly
Went buzzing by
The cat’s white nose
And I suppose
The cats intention
Was to try
And catch that fly
As it went by
Her paws ****** out
In desperate throttle
To try and ****
The winged bluebottle
The fly escaped
Its hum got higher
Its flight got faster
The cat chased after
Round and round the room they went
The cats neck bent
And furiously sent
The fly on high
Above sharp claws
As she flipped and pawed
The clever fly soared
Until at last
The cat did stop
And off did trot
Like she cared not
To catch a much less mobile snack
Her cat food sat
Upon her mat
The fly is drifting overhead
Its buzz all low
It’s flying slow
And watching out for battle two
When cat is through
With chewing food
And so it goes on every day
Some get away
Some like to play
The cat and fly
They both still try
To take their chance
In life's great dance
Sep 27, 2016
Sep 27, 2016 at 4:23 AM UTC
New fallen snow on an icy road,
this path I stumble along.
I shake the branches,
I can't take any chances,
but still I fall beneath the serpent song.
Two weeks pure, sacrificed,
a single day to purge my vice
to lay my flesh upon the ground.
Two bluebottle flys, saved,
and two stinkbugs, revived.
Seeing the dead, curled up things
come back to life,
I am certain I will survive
any trials that might assail me,
in the frigid gray sky days to come,
before I finally lay this body down.
Feb 25, 2017
Feb 25, 2017 at 1:26 PM UTC
Rock me to sleep crickets
with your grand night song.
The ones,
that makes stars shine
and moon radiate.
The ones
that gives peaceful dreams
a chance to root.
Take me
in your arms
oh lullaby,
so I may drift in sleep,
to vision sunshine days.
Rock me,
as night evolves to day
and light breeze
moves through window pane.
Gryllidaes,
small but loud.
Wrap my ears
with your musical berceuse.
The ones
that tickles inner ear
to match hearts warble.
The one’s
that play an original masterpiece
all its own.
Bluebottle of night
play on
like fine musician,
as I whisper smile.
As I,
drift
in world of sleep
with your blankets song
and my grateful heart.
StarBG © 2017
Sep 4, 2017
Sep 4, 2017 at 5:33 AM UTC
BROTHER BLUEBOTTLE
A bluebottle emerges
from a hedge
like an expensive and
repulsive flying jewel.
It settles upon
my ring finger.
I wear it with
fear and delight.
Its iridescence
bewitches.
This, the first
bluebottle I'd ever seen.
I thought they grew
in hedges.
I had a lot to learn.
It buzzes about
in my brain
as if 50 years
had not passed.
Welcome back
brother bluebottle.
It's good to see you
still alive.
Jan 23, 2018
Jan 23, 2018 at 5:29 PM UTC
Flying over you, buzzing like crazy
Sitting over your nose, are you that lazy
Why do you not make me go away?
Why every of my mate has their own way?
I am sure you gonna spray us to ****
But you laying on the floor covered in blood spill
Your breath seems long gone
The night does no good as now we hit the dawn
The rotting smell of the blood on you
Attracts most of us insects not just few
Your open mouth has given entry for new
The ants lingering in your wide open eyes
Many races of insects feed, especially the flies
A thief had to die, one day
I'm sitting high looking at your body today
How aimless, humans are to **** each other
We are better despite abandoned by our mother
It was your fate you met few days ago here
No one is searching for, nobody knows you dead here
As rigamortis has taken its place upon you
It's obvious, we gonna hunt and feed on you
We only show up on such occasion
And deal with the dead bodies with passion
We come uninvited when someone dies
Yes, we are the bluebottle flies...
©sim
Nov 17, 2017
Nov 17, 2017 at 8:20 PM UTC
USES OF GREAT LITERATURE
Bluebottle & I
share the same moment
. . .the same hour.
It keeps divebombing me
like some crazy kamikaze.
It is a beautiful flying jewel
but I can't appreciate that
just now and enraged I
throw Proust at it.
The full weight of A LA RECHERCHE
DE TEMPS PERDU
thrown halfway across the room
brings it down with a bang and
it is no more.
"Heavy!" I praise the Proust.
Ten minutes later its brother
or its ghost
has returned with a vengeance.
"Don't look at me!" says the Proust
"I done my bit!"
I raise the book and
the bluebottle bolts.
Just the threat of the Proust
works just fine...this time.
Nov 2, 2016
Nov 2, 2016 at 7:08 AM UTC