Pretty, pretty boy sing

Pretty, pretty boy spread your wing

Pretty, pretty boy learn how to fly

The swirlies procreate with my devotion.


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.


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.


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?