A gory, gross poem about my housefly

The housefly disappears when I bring the swatter out.

I can hear it buzzing in its slow flight,

roaming the humid air of my home.

How does it know to evade?

Does it sense its imminent death on the psychic waves?

Can it see the shape in its multiple eyes?

Do flies tell stories about the swatter

from one generation to the next

passing down cautionary tales?

And why won’t the damned thing settle?

I feel the impatience of the hunter stalking the prey

Wish for the reflexes of a cat

and the eyesight of an eagle.

Stop and rest your wings, fat housefly,

so I can squash your shell into your brains!

No sticky ribbons for you to be trapped,

feebly wiggling your legs in a futile reach for freedom.

No empty glass to release you into the wild,

for in your stupidity you will bumble back inside.

It is only, for you, a great smashing swat,

and your body will pop out of living existence.

My apologies if you are the spirit of an ancestor,


I am disgusted when you land on my face as I sleep

I dislike the scratch of your legs on my calf

I hate that you crave my food without providing in kind

And I know that you carry germs on your hairy bits.

Come to me, round insect,

Come to me and accept your fate.

2 thoughts on “A gory, gross poem about my housefly

  1. tarafoxhall says:

    Love that ending! Bravo! 🙂 T

    Sent from my iPhone


    Liked by 1 person

    • There turned out to be three of them! Drunk little bastards winging randomly around, dive-bombing my head . . . I got one with the swatter, and the other two with the floppy end of the half-empty toothpaste tube!


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