It doesen't matter what is inversely proportional.
The flies are here.
Shimmering, udualting to the music of the spheres
The old ritual occurs with ease, plopping.
One on the canvas,
One on the paper,
One on the celluloid,
One on the LCD.
Swarming their creator,
Plopping, plopping, plopping, plopping.
Lynch, Scorsese, Wenders, Altman,
All digested by blue-bottles.
Leaving time unbound and aimless
For Mdm. é to interpret.
The disturbance of anticipation is
Interrupted by silent screams from the wasteland.
Buzzing and plopping,
The four flies orbit patiently,
Waiting for the moment when a
Temporary lapse of reason engages.
Bite the blue velvet scarf
As a dwarf protests being exploited
For a billboard ad promising
New heights in drama and hygeine.
Bring more salt,
You are me, eat your fill now.
Flies plop into the cairn
And smile eeirely, dreaming of blue velvet.
We all float here,
We fight the enemy,
But we don't know why.
We eat and the four flies watch.
Karen fell off the swing.
Mary made herself throw up.
Jill lost her voice in the knobs.
Carla drove to lost conclusions.
Plop, plop, plop, plop.
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