A Fly Grasping Warmth While Perched On An Integrated Circuit
my feelers feel a moldy cheese wheel
to the dented and bitten side, slapping
pushing, thumbing down, break a chunk
and bring close to my eyes to take
a look. there are my brothers, they
look hither and see my eight thousand
eyes gazing upon squirming fatness
in the festering fuzzy fungus sauce.
not fit to eat or to discard, i hold
my brothers' home and look to the wall,
then to the floor, and to the ceiling
so mottled and cream. just a little less
viscous than their own abode, and
smelling similar. they have no eyes
or ears, but an instinct to wiggle and
squirm. so alike are we, my brothers in
the curdled gouda.
i devoured the wheel whole, for i hungered,
and was sated
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