Holocasting/Fly

Flames flap in the wind as standards
marking spaces in which they with
little thought of tomorrows passing draw
slight succour from yesterday’s loss.

The sun sign silhouetted amidst black
shadows falling across the nightline
dances in the skylight crimson
dresses of evening dinner and wine.

Thundrous roars peak and molotov
cocktails speak freely of time
and light utterances so easily spoken now
in words that will never be found.

Deep red mist opens the ayes of augmentation.  Each
yes sign given tales of telling impedimentation. The
sentiment sweeps low and fierce, nipping at the shin
up the pole they go, deep violence coloured rags to
the bull, whips round their ears, leather smell.

Withdrawn, withered looks, stealing hearts
souls flight broken in the backbone of tipped
wings with feather light frequency folds curls
through the air in which, like liquid, the fly
flaps again against the flowers blow.

It once stood high, fiercely throwing lager cans
as rows of blue and black flowed throughout their
streets paved with gold and violet glows outside
where they stood in a row, formly, without the less
spoken words, so slight in their flow, hitting hard.

Ormia ochracea seeps through lightskies viscosity
burying its maternity within future husks of
fresh cricket in a field verdant with spring.
Its ears rest for ever within its chest, no
longer words have ever a place in its heart.

Beneath the beaten winds of forgotten flies
momentous moments, caught back thrown into
light sourced slow motion moviescope multitudes
panicking and plying their lifes blood for a drop
of sweetness and nectar within arid pastures.

The fly drops to the floor oblivious.
The flags drop from the poles serious.
Worries beset the brows of many many
days pass in another creatures life.

Dust settled settling accounts
the former fierce abandon to lifes
sounds and smells of blood fresh
fed upon interminably by flies.

Dusk settles and days wane full
flowing time writing histories
lines caressing wounds in heat struck
confines. Brushing the insects away.

Article written by

philosopher and filmmaker from brighton, currently teaching philosophy at the Free University of Brighton

One Response

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  1. Violi
    Violi at |

    Very interesting poem; chaotic and fluxuating with its adjectives and descriptions, yet structured with what is being described – I liked it.

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