the noiseless care of a blue violet is not for
me. I know too many old men drinking hot tea
who once smelled Trotsky's bad breath.
a small glass of whiskey under a
hot electric light. that's it. a fly lights upon
my hand and walks around. I let it. it is only a
hand. yet I am obsessed with the impossibility of being a human being. I can't make
it. I see atom bombs in my
grapefruit. maggot weeds fruit my crying
bones. whatcha thinka that? ugg.
a fly. a fly walking through the sun in a thin
dress. showing its legs showing its
pussy. roses grow like fascists. on the back of my
neck I have a tattoo of Miro carrying the
gloves of Hemingway down a Paris
street. I am drunk when I should be asleep. I am
asleep when I should be drunk. I can't get it
right. if I were wiser I'd have more
obsessions. a better spare tire in the trunk of my
the fly is gone. wire me COLLECT
car. fly if you wanna come
back. flies are worse than
women. a fly is a beast that stared at the moon
too long. he's worse than
Mickey Mouse or
Charley Chaplin. now I crawl on the ceiling above my head.
I walk around upsidedown in yellow
light, like inside of bloomers. I walk around
looking for a shotgun or a
toothpick or an
icepick. shit: now, all of a sudden, ants.
crawl through the bowl of my
head, the one on my
neck, down there I need a blowjob
but who in the hell knows
when?

© Frank Silvanski