where smoke gets in your eyes


Fruit flies keep falling in my glass
I drink on my own

Each time squashed wings on side
each lie inside the acid

I stare sometime

I sit in the corner in front of the cooker on a plastic footstool from a previous owner
And I crouch

I hide away from the kitchen window that faces the neighbour’s window but I am still under another small window with a Victorian knob
That is over the cooker which I can open because I have no extractor to extract the smoke of the cigarette I smoke

So that’s how the fruit flies keep coming

But there is no fruit in the kitchen so one of them flies in the drink
It gets smeared on the side
in the corner of a curved glass

Always one
It’s actually curious that

Scared of death I pick each one with no hope for survival
I am thinking death in those fumes is like a Chevrolet crash for a little something like that

In there I stick my clumsy finger and swirl it round ’till the fly sticks out
and I scoop it and I know there is no point really thinking
forget the liquid for the fumes only got it
They breathe too don’t they?

I blow, scrape, drink and repeat
from one finger onto the other
Each time somehow it crawls out

In the aftermath super ego make over
Known to the fruit flies as the goddess of the Cooker corner
And in their 24hours some still pursue the pilgrimage of the glass

When each goes through it
Something happens

Then a spider creeps out

What a Liberty?