Lord of the Flies
David Barber
This is Heaven, its
bright meadows
loud with bees and
their honeyed dreams,
home to the unending
progress of ants;
here are butterflies,
drunk on nectar,
and beetles, obscurely
wandering;
also abattoirs and
mountains of shit,
swart with those of
unsavoury tastes.
The sheer tonnage of
small souls
swung the vote. The
insects are in charge.
Remember the countless
swatted flies
and all the roaches
that you sprayed?
Be grateful that they
let you in. You,
the favourite snack of
bedbugs, lice
and the peckish
mosquito.
End
