down there there’s flies thrumming
I don’t go there when they crop up
beyond maturity and withered reason
their squashed fruits sunken
with liquid decomposition
verbal recoil stabs the cup down hard
coffee escapes, dribbling a charcoal stain
flees through cracked plastic
shamed plastic once comforting
joins our sins, my eyes break out
scared vehicles whizzing
clockwork occupants
hugged thoughts clinging
to unsound importances
as the aether casts disapproval
midlife wonky-eye woman speaks
“You don’t see news like you used to,
blown along like crumpled tumbleweed.”
shuffling past, she festers over what was,
eventually joining the condition
the dripping stops suddenly
it’s a trick missed by ears
but absent ripples catch the eye
scraping pieces of unsavoury truth
out of toenail clippings
flies still agitate, thrumming,
like an ancient washing machine
furthering its career as a sex therapist
between the twittering lines
remaking faces from soundless pixels
thousands of hatched spiders
their threads woven to connect
draw us to separate webs
our bodies wrapped parcels
sucked dry into squashed fruits
Al Barz 