The power of flies; they win battles, hinder our soul from acting, eat our body.
– Pascal, Pensees, 367
I hate the thing I cannot be and yet
I know I’m not wrong for I’m never wrong.
I count the stars and one alone has set
Me going – all the rest can go to hell.
I didn’t make the flies, but I had put
Their song to good employment. Now they dwell
With me – and I should know, being the lord
Of the buggers, they make an easy sell
For cleaning up a butcher’s yard. Byword
Of light itself – I was it! But no more –
I’ve got a kitchen kingdom, fleshy sword
And flyblown maw instead to tend. I’m sore
At heart and hate the Jews – and Romans too.
But they can play very well together, or
I’ll see them die in their attempts. Then, through
The gates I see that star. That goddamn star.
No fly left out, no maggot stranded – no!
So how can stars be any different? Sure,
The cretins eat putrescence put in front
Of them, but never question it. Their care
For me – it knows no bounds! Each accident
Of nature, each festering harlot of
Ol’ Babylon, every mother-loving runt
Of a whoreson tabbed. Then I look above….
I’m not waiting around. No. Time to move.