Where?

Pretty, pretty boy sing

Pretty, pretty boy spread your wing

Pretty, pretty boy learn how to fly

The swirlies procreate with my devotion.

Good-bye!

You’re in motion all around me

Making faces that your pleased to meet me

And your work rate is ferocious.

A bead of sweat leaves my eye

from enscaling your coordinates motion.

Goodbye!

Now I wonder what might be

And the swirlies and me get a little sad

for all that stinks and festers isn’t bad

these corpses need their rectal temperature taken

Such an intrusion might make them reawaken.

Goodbye!

Me writing a poem and pretending my job is forensic anthropologist!

by Andrew Watkins

 

The Fly Or Me?

I feel the heat of your words

and the pull upon my skin and in my mind, a memory seared into the butter of my brain.

How can I reach those same heights as before?

In echoes, a fly buzzes in my ear.

My pot is empty.

What should I call this plenty?

of movement and thought and words.

Is it mortal energy or given by a deity

or is it pure cosmic energy? Harnessed by atoms and molecules

going round in a story like the receiver in my head? Why? How?

Can I capture this force and use it, bottle it, settle the cause?

And will you understand it, those who don’t yet believe in

the universe in a jar theory?

This second rate poem created just for fame sake for the glory of my name.

To lift me out of the pit into which I fall when alone for too long with only a fly for some company.

Who lands upon my knee annoyingly. Who is more pathetic being? The fly or me?