No Fly Zone

A tiny fly jazz dances erratically in-between me and my screen.

A brave if insanely foolish manoeuvre.

The elders obviously haven’t warned him about me yet.

I give him the benefit of the doubt and try to reason with him,

but he’s having none of it.

He’s hell bent on provoking an unnecessary altercation.

I salute his courage,

as I wipe his remains off my sullied palms.


Sweet lord, this must mean Spring is here.

Again, so soon?

More flies will come,

then wasps,

and perhaps even a dragon



Then the dreaded mechanised garden infantry,

tag team of insufferable Cnuts,

resuming their unwinnable war on nature.
Followed by their foul offspring,

prancing about on the freshly cut grass,

squealing in shrill off-pitch delight,

burrowing devil rabbits deep into the hillsides in my head.


They are cunning, disguising it as harmless fun,

but I know that in reality they were secretly sent by dark forces,

with the explicit intent of breaking my train of thought.

The dark forces don’t want creativity,

they want hacking and drilling, and whining and whirring,

destruction and noise, and hedonistic combustion engine orgies.

All these things which seem to grate against the season’s true zeitgeist.


Then the heat,

the accursed heat,

the unrelenting nauseating inescapable heat,

the crushing slow-cooking leather seat sticking heat.


When I’m rich, I’ll take my summers in Iceland.

I heard tell that the women are comely,

that they have fresh cod on tap,

and let’s face it,

even a hardened psychopath wouldn’t try to mow hardened lava.


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