Some days all I do is kill flies

On a one seat sofa-
a chair some people would call them-
rang a ring of HB pencils,
tree trunks felled for foolish thoughts,
joined tip to toe in a hexagon
around a whole of dead flies.

Eyes darting,
try follow one of these guys around after fifteen rounds of Raid and tea towel to their face;
kraken tail with a wipe clean mane spraying
down insurgents as he walked back to bed
back to where he came,
and in his wake remained a trail
of dismembered flies who had once flew,
their processor pin legs, size zero nibs, laid strewn cast in egg white tombs,
marshmallow stilts of te-tram-e-thin coating old wounds and tearing open new ones,
a 9/11 to your heart,
match to your hair,
nervous system on the floor cos there's more where that came from, Fly.
Buckle up and cry,
you got in my way.

But fumes follow thieves,
bandwagons on breeze,
and he smelt marshmallow in the air,
came to rest just there with legs lost in a white tomb duvet,
Juliet above him, happy cos he’d made it so soon,
whispering ‘I’ve bought you some presence so you’ll always know the time’ and from her spine,
cracked open,
fled a thousand flies in crusade,
sewer covers from the sky chiming
‘better luck next time, Pal, this is a mother fucking raid’.