Unsocial Medium

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


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