FLY IN HOB NAIL BOOTS (# 74,954)

There is a fly over there, on the edge of the bread board hoovering crumbs.

He’s got a nerve.

I say he, he could be a she.

S/he is now on my page.

S/he moves to the gentle vibrations of the hard drive as if s/he is being held captive at a Lilliputian S&M chamber.

If s/he were to wear boots, heavy boots, hob nail boots, i wonder what s/he might type?

I  P U K E  Y O U  perhaps?

Or maybe  J E F F  G O L B L U M  S T O L E  M Y  L I F E  S T O R Y?

S/he now sits on my hand, rubbing her freshly soiled six legs over my knuckles.

Sorry, it’s doing nothing for me.

It’s October – isn’t it time s/he died?

Anyone know an old lady with a good appetite?

October 6, 2009
Filed Under Writing on writing 

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