Arriving from the garden,
blowies
drunk on sunshine, compost and fresh chook shit
blunder into webs and broadcast their SOS in staccato bursts of static.
Or after hours of head butting glass they are found
brain damaged and dead on the window sill, hairy corpses dry and crisp.
Or punch drunk they drown in dish filled sinks and float out cold with the congealed grease and discarded lettuce leaf.
Or dizzy with joy crash backwards into a cooling cup where they kick their legs in the air and continue to spin creating tiny tea whirlpools with their wings
Or struck by chemical warfare they dive bomb the evening meal
Splash down in the gravy,
pump maggots from their convulsing body,
completing the life cycle at the dinner table.
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