February 16, 2012
(The fly stories continue…)
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.
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fly flesh covers
my hands. i hold my palms in bleach to rid my skin of the clinging black scales. [why don't you love me, the fly asks, salivating onto my eyes.] i cough up fly pieces that move quickly. they moan in my ear and bite the skin until i bleed. [i hate your fatty teeth, i say.] the fly meat giggles. [what teeth? we only have tongues, they say.] the flies move to the wall beams and latch onto the plaster, thick meat slabs stuck in their legs. putrid meat juice drips to the carpeting and stains. [tell us, the flies say, leaning close to my jawline. what does it mean when you say you have had enough vinegar? and what does it mean if you do not pray? and what if you look at the sky and see nothing but darkness? and if there is ice but it melts? and your stomach fat churns until it is like butter? and you stare upon our flesh and see yourself? does it mean anything at all?] the flies breathe into my cheeks and i fold my tongue back until it touches my throat muscles. [it doesn't mean anything, i say.] the flies press together. their eyes fuse together at the ends, extending a red line past their bodies. [nothing, the flies chorus. nothing at all? how can that be? there has to be a god in the emptiness? maybe a flu? or a pneumonia deity? some offshoot of a religious icon that should be a stone but is covered in radiator parts? are you radioactive? what can we do with our bowels when you won't wear any of the flesh around your neck? bow to us and we can pull you up by your hair into heaven.] the flies buzz and my head aches. [you have to stop, i whisper. you have to go away. just disappear. like ghosts. like your dead do. just stand against the wall long enough to resemble a shadow and drop into the nothing. i can't stand the way your skin looks.] the flies press against my eyes until the pressure makes the gelatin pop out of the sockets. i slam my fists into the jelly and shove the material back in. moisture covers my hands. [we don't have that problem, the flies croon. our eyes are solid rubies. we never rupture. we just gleam. until knives pluck our eyes out and shove them into metal settings for vaginas to wear on their outer walls.] the flies rub their eyes. the eyes squeak loudly and i press my back against the wall. the flies move around my face. they collapse their wings against my cheeks and buzz until i feel the vibrations in my ligaments. [we like you, the flies whisper in singsong voices. we think you are nice. you smell like honey. and sweetness makes us hungry. will you feed us the syrup draining from your eye? will you let us take one bite and then another, while we rotate our pelvises in a rocking motion that would shame most religious men? death to the pelvic exam. the beginning of the black scales. the end of the red eyes.] the flies roll their eyes into their backs and strike the ground. they sound like falling metal. one by one, the flies smack against the floor and rest lifelessly on the carpeting. [there, the dying flies moan. take our meat into your mouth. we will be reborn through bowel movements.] i lift the flies. i pluck them out of the carpet and drop them on my tongue. they sizzle. my tongue numbs. i bring my teeth together, cracking the hard shells. yellow pus leaks out and coats my tongue muscle. but it tastes like beef. so i eat another. and then one more.
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