of verse, Bits

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.


Waterloo Station

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