BLOWFLY
*
The Blowfly latched onto us as we sat at our table
on the front terrace of the cafe bar/
Straight off the street he flew/ clean out of his head,
he lisped a Laundry List of Language,
tumble-dried Metaphors,
mixed and mismatched
like his socks.
Speaking in an Alphabet Soup
of Allegory/ served with a hefty side ordering
of Word Salad,
he reminded me of someone I
had never met, or possibly
just someone
I had never wanted to meet.
By way of Introduction
He proffered me a handbill
for a protest march against something or other,
urging us to attend. It
soon became apparent however
that he had no real connection
with the Event at all,
He just picked up the handbill somewhere
and used it as a way to insinuate himself
into our Company.
He was in fact like
a highly specialized parasitic insect
that attaches itself to groups of unwary drinkers;
able to sense the precise moment
the alcohol kicks in and they drop their guard;
Humanity’s usual suspicious distrust of intrusive strangers
being replaced by a generalized sense of Bonhomie
and misplaced feelings of Openness
and Inclusivity.
By the time Regret seeps in it is too late;
he has attached himself
and is feeding off the suppressed discomfort he is causing.
Like a Horsefly he is tough enough
to shrug off Social Clues to go. Little hints like
slaps or kicks or insults have little effect;
Hell, slap his forehead with a sand-shoe
He’ll just buzzz around the table a few times
before settling down on another chair.
When he went to have a piss we changed tables,
hiding in a dark back-corner of the Bar,
but it was no use,
he followed and found us,
dragging his stool behind him.
When he suggested we start buying “rounds”
my blood pressure skyrocketed, I
could feel the veins pulsing in my forehead.
I had a pen in my hand with which I’d been making
a few drunken observations, and by this time
I held it like a dagger poised to plunge,
clutching it so tightly
that my knuckles had turned white
as I contemplated shoving it into his eye-socket
should he start showing any Aggression, or indeed
by this stage if he gave me any Excuse,
like, say, continuing to exist in my Presence
for example.
Sheer provocation.
I gave him a broad, nasty smile.
My Companions could sense I was not happy
& wisely decided it was time to decamp,
before there was an Incident,
so the next time the Blowfly turned his back
and went to the bar
we performed a swift, efficient evacuation.
Exuent with flourish, as it were.
So we found another bar,
but frankly the Blowfly with his sticky-footed clinging
and Passive-Aggressive disregard
for social conventions
had put a pall
on the whole evening
and I just ended up going Home early.
Next time I go out
I might bring a big, old, rusty spray can
of Insect Death with me, in case of Pests,,
or maybe even
just a rolled up newspaper.
It’d be better for the Environment,
after all.
***
***
The Reverend Hellfire is a practised Performance Poet and an Ordained Minister of the Church of Spiritual Humanism, and some other stuff I won’t get into now, suffice to say that He’s a stirling example of Humanity.
Omnia Bonum est, baby.
***
Reverend Hellfire's Sunday Sermon 