The big wet in Queensland
brings a truckload of bastard flies,
to my town, my house, and my ears.
They bustle their way through
any doors left ajar, any window
unscreened, any mouth left open
in disgust at the sheer numbers
involved in the fly army,
invading our sensibilities
and ensuring the continuation
of the Australian monotone, Strine –
we’re all card carrying ventriloquists.
The flies descend enmasse on food,
in drinks, buzzing up a storm
and getting cornered in every room.
Any attempt at napping in the heat
of the afternoon is met with a posse
of flies, the din of which increases
the more you want to sleep.
The only time they disappear
is when the fly swatter is raised,
or the can of Mortein is poised
for the attack on Louie and co.
Those eyes don’t miss a beat,
and don’t get me started
on the dying fly, the pathetic bursts
of buzz, the contorted spasms
of the nearly dead, which then gather
in piles behind couches and in crevices,
where the vacuum turns a blind eye.
But, you mustn’t blame the Hoover,
I’m telling you, sucking up flies is no fun,
and then there’s maggots,
in the rubbish bin, hogging out
on detritus, stinking the place up,
reminding us of our final decay.
Flies, damn flies,
enough to make me go ballistic.