Summer
There are flies… everywhere.
On me, on the meat that was supposed to be served as our dinner, on the dead, luke warm eye of my great grandmother and on my untuned, maroon colored guitar.
An apocalyptic smell of disease and deterioration. Not the rot of some body but of…
…Flies.
Flies getting electrocuted and melting against the old, warm, buzzing luminous lights in the ceiling.
A nostalgic feeling fills my arteries and veins – home is once again.
Hot hot summer, where have you taken me?
Poetry and I 