On a Bluefly Buzzing at a Television
I sit bored in my parents’ house, vegetating
Between university terms, addicted
To the sofa, watching a bluefly buzz.
Life is little and sex sells. Innocence
Is normal. When the fly buzzes, it says:
Sic transit Gloria. Rage and so on
Against the dying of the light or something.
I am Buzz Lightyear, Destroyer of Worlds!
Hey, I don’t know. Nothing is better than this.
The TV blares adverts for Life Insurance
As the bluefly bumps against it. Poor devil.
You make me want to be a better man.
There’s nobody to forgive me, I fear,
And I can’t be arsed to read anymore.
Casual sexism. Sure. Just sleep with her,
Pretend you love her, cheat on her. Sure.
I don’t know. Have faith in what you have
Forgotten. Remember. Resistance hurts.
Take the tube home at 2AM. Don’t shave.
Don’t shower. Worry about STDs.
I seem to spend my life at Waterloo Station
Watching Arrivals and Departures, flowing
As I glide, bat-like, down the escalator
In a black suit. I’m smug, promiscuous,
I hate myself. I’m nobody. Like a vampire
Crawling back into the sewers — malcontent,
Blood-hungry, tanless — to escape the sun.
by Paul Abbott