Lord of the Poets

I almost caught a poet today,

bumping my porch screen

seeking a way

to go out, spread germs and play

 

Not quick enough

to kill him,

I opened the screen

and he zig-zagged away,

straightaway.

 

I hate when fat ones

come buzzing around,

Whining the same old ballads.

Eating my food.

Flying from toilet.

To crawl on my salad.

Turning me into an asshat

Slime,

who wants only to squash

But manages to thrill

With close fly-swatter calls,

giving them a base on balls.

Some stare at me from second.

 

My life is a mess,

Drawing these flies,

smelling my death,

my steady decay,

knowing there's room,

for maggots to play.

Listening,

waiting for my confession,

before I cop to psychotic depression,

as the reason for selecting my

chosen profession.

 

I am soiled enough,

absent flies and poetry.

Who gives a damn,

about leftover lamb chops,

smeared in bright green

mint jelly,

carved by a smelly

butcher,

who I've joined on the do-fly lists,

with tickets to visit

other slovenly twits,

clearly taken leave

of their cleanliness wits.

 

Tuna cans left open,

dishes unwashed,

I swat; and

one's off in reverse,

his escape route of choice,

he's not killed, my voice

screams in his wake,

with what breath I can take,

“Go find  yourself a new delhi!"