I am currently haunted, by a tiny black fly.
I am waiting, in vain, for it to die.
You’d think it so easy, to expunge
its tenuous life, in a single lunge;
but it seems to sense my malign intention,
and vanishes, into another dimension.
From whence it emerges, to persecute me,
as I slump, half-asleep, half-watching TV.
It comes and goes; its movements so fast.
It often appears on the edge of the glass
I’m drinking from, full of wine, or beer.
I pick the glass up, and it disappears
into a world of dark energy, anti-matter,
where black holes suck up the spray and spatter
of dying planets. A tenebrous world;
the complete obverse of our
A world of negative truths, or lies;
presided over by the Lord of the Flies.
Because I have a phobia about insects – particularly wasps and bees – I keep all my windows closed, at all times. Nonetheless, I still get the odd little intruder, penetrating my defences, from time to time. The most recent one is the tiny black fly of the above poem. The poem started off describing what had been happening, as a lot of my poems do. It was only when I got the idea of it disappearing into another dimension – which had to be one of appropriate blackness, of course – that I felt the poem starting to “take off”, and the Lord of the Flies seemed to be a fitting ending.
Just a reminder, in case anyone missed it in my last post: a first collection of my poems, entitled The Bunuel Martini and Other Poems, has recently been published, and is now available as a paperback or e-book from https://www.amazon.co.uk and https://www.lulu.com