Fat black fly doing lazy hipster circuits – until I sleepy try
to twat it with the only thing to hand, boxers, where-upon
it explodes with dementia frenzy of tantruming toddler
in kitchen/hall/kitchen/hall rage, kicking paint,
slamming cupboards and screaming for Sours!
Pushed to evade, The Thing goes plicking off walls, doors
ceiling, blinds, its slowster-glide-loops replaced in haste
with that screaming, whiny strain of pity/engine/wings –
a late-for-work hairdryer, burning, ramped up high;
show-off moped jumping kerbs at the Sparside;
the dull toll crunch of a hoover ramming skirting,
nipping in surges, dragging the hairs out until, suddenly it’s
Marathon-Over-Crash-Stop-Time, and there, in the break,
it pulses, clings to paper-shade, hopes for breath.
But I swing and somehow splat, Connect! Follow its fall then
stoop, pinch/seal its passing into wet crunch tissue with a
Yuck but no regrets, ‘cept fry-up grease, blood n guts stain
and the historical doubting slight of hystericals accusing,
Call yourself a vegetarian? Was that really necessary?
Couldn’t you just open a window?

© Gary Studley