The black ill favoured fly

is a perpetual nuisance

as it buzzes, dive bombs

and irritates me to the point

of wishing to cause harm

to the beast that spits

and tastes the sweat in the air

as I fumble for words in the semi

darkness, the gloom of soul

and thought. I pick up my

silver edged letter opener,

purchased from a Saturday market

in Greenwich and I wish I could find

the speed in which to take this

ill favoured black fly out

of the game, a death on my conscious

yes but surely one more fitting

the point of existence, quick through

the mottled disease ridden heart,

rather that the stink of pesticide

chocking the little bugger to death.

I hate flies but even I would not

wish the fate of gas upon them.

 

Ian D. Hall 2016