In the looong time I've taken to compose a dozen or so new poems, I curiously have also been stalling on my The Colour Grey revisions. As it turns out, more of my teenage poetry is beginning to shine through to my current self as a blinding expression of living with unknown and, thus, undiagnosed autism. With this understanding, I'm hesitant to revisit a lot of those old poems because of a queasiness mixed of embarrassment and insubordination.
Photo SourceNevertheless, I am motivated to continue if only to take a break from writing about my archnemesis, media culture in AmeriCNN Sentences (which is continuing, just less frequently).
Much like I do with many (but not all) poems I write, I approached the rewrite of Flies by first deciding on the meter. Then, I broke it up into syllables and went from there. This time, as you can see below, I didn't get far.
After spending several hours writing to this point as well as several more stuck, I quickly realized I wasn't adding a single thing to Flies. What's worse, I was turning an honest, plainspoken poem into a vocabulary challenge. Even though I describe this project as a "rewrite," it is, more accurately, a response, in verse, to the previous writing. And to this poem, I have very little to say. It could definitely use some touching up, for sure ("have sex, enjoy the filth of life so shamelessly" 0.O) but nothing, I think, warranting a full rewrite/response.
One thing I will say, in prose, is I am still unsure what the exact source of my distaste for flies is. Maybe it's genetic or epigenetic. My father, to this day, will get moderately enraged by their intrusive buzzing, as will I if they get too close. I think one of my cousins behaves the same. I suppose it could be the bone-tingling buzzing, but then I do enjoy the hum of a bumblebee. Their unsanitariness definitely plays a role in why I don't want them to touch me, even though I know mere contact would not likely get me sick and the fact that I'm far from a germaphobe.
Maybe it's because of that little boy in Africa, captured and beamed through the air into my childhood living room, jutting bones and a distended belly, thin, sand-cracked lips, eyes like two, big, porcelain saucers, and a slightly pointed nose, like mine, capped off by a familiar forehead...minus that horrid little mobile mole with wings he refused to shoo away. Why didn't he shoo it away? Was he not familiar with "Shoo, Fly, Don't Bother Me!"? Speaking of which, let's transition finally to the poem. But first, a verse of the popular children's song you yourself may be unfamiliar with.
If I sleep in the sun this nigger knows,
If I sleep in the sun this nigger knows,
A fly come sting him on the nose.
Flies
One day in open conversation
A friend asked what I feared
I wasn't sure that I should say
For it was not as it appeared
But after endless prodding
I looked him in the eyes
And told him that what I feared most
Were little harmless flies
He let out such a screeching laugh
And begged me to explain
So I began to tell him why
As he tried to self-contain
I told him how they live their lives
Straightforward and care-free
They gorge, have sex, enjoy the filth
Of life so shamelessly
They see the world in black and white
Caring not about the grey
They know that they are limited
By this mortal game we play
And when they're not indulging
They're still living at life's best
Sharing their philosophy
By being such damn pests
Their lives are short, far more than ours
They try not to comprehend
Everything about everything
They'll know all in the end
He laughed again and said to me
“C'mon man, they're just flies
You're reading too much into life!”
“Exactly,” I replied
The Colour Grey available here as ePub, in paperback, or from Amazon here as an ebook. For a FREE pdf copy and to help me raise $1,500 to help fund asd related research in my community, please consider donating any amount to this gofundme (all donations go directly to the Marcus Autism Center).
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