Flies of Sidi-Haracem
Scat, you flies of Sidi-Haracem!
You brazen hags twirling idly in mid-air
lusting after rotted carrion fruits
finding only the flaky bones of my intentions
hurled over the rocky cliffs of your promises.
Scores of flies teem my windowsill horizon
clouding the walls and carrying away my memory
picking the teeth of my bedsprings
scouring the floors I stand on.
Lift me now you trash eaters and thunder bugs!
Scoop me under a floating black puddle of your rickety bodies
all clinging and bumbling under the stress of your efforts.
Clean me if you must in your damnable fashion
lick me and dissolve me but get me out of this prison.
The oilyards here billow death into the sky.
The railroads drill disease into our countryside.
The chemical plants crystallize the water they straddle
forcing it to crumble under its own weight
and the rivers are piling outside my window.
My stale sandwich gives you reason enough to breed.
My cell is a just carcass to house your young
writhing away in blind squirming piles, and like they are,
I am losing patience to be born into the rubble of the future
dying to live under the rotted umbrella of your city
killing away the mass of your progress
and within the currents of foul air that suspend us
obliterating your rosy measure of solution
overriding your tact and cunning
all dripping in finery and precision
abhorring any answers
rejecting solid builders.
We are the flies of Sidi-Haracem.