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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=354561" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>2 Flies</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The flies are angry bits of life; <br>why are they so angry?<br>it seems they want more,<br>it seems almost as if they<br>are angry<br>that they are flies;<br>it is not my fault;<br>I sit in the room<br>with them<br>and they taunt me<br>with their agony;<br>it is as if they were<br>loose chunks of soul<br>left out of somewhere;<br>I try to read a paper<br>but they will not let me<br>be;<br>one seems to go in half-circles<br>high along the wall,<br>throwing a miserable sound<br>upon my head;<br>the other one, the smaller one<br>stays near and teases my hand,<br>saying nothing,<br>rising, dropping<br>crawling near;<br>what god puts these<br>lost things upon me?<br>other men suffer dictates of<br>empire, tragic love…<br>I suffer<br>insects… <br>I wave at the little one<br>which only seems to revive<br>his impulse to challenge:<br>he circles swifter,<br>nearer, even making<br>a fly-sound,<br>and one above<br>catching a sense of the new<br>whirling, he too, in excitement,<br>speeds his flight,<br>drops down suddenly<br>in a cuff of noise<br>and they join<br>in circling my hand,<br>strumming the base<br>of the lampshade<br>until some man-thing<br>in me<br>will take no more<br>unholiness<br>and I strike<br>with the rolled-up-paper -<br>missing! - <br>striking,<br>striking,<br>they break in discord,<br>some message lost between them,<br>and I get the big one<br>first, and he kicks on his back<br>flicking his legs<br>like an angry whore,<br>and I come down again<br>with my paper club<br>and he is a smear<br>of fly-ugliness;<br>the little one circles high<br>now, quiet and swift,<br>almost invisible;<br>he does not come near<br>my hand again;<br>he is tamed and<br>inaccessible; I leave<br>him be, he leaves me<br>be;<br>the paper, of course,<br>is ruined;<br>something has happened,<br>something has soiled my<br>day,<br>sometimes it does not<br>take man<br>or a woman,<br>only something alive;<br>I sit and watch<br>the small one;<br>we are woven together<br>in the air<br>and the living;<br>it is late<br>for both of us.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Charles+Bukowski">Charles Bukowski</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=354561" data-title="2 Flies de Charles Bukowski" data-description="The flies are angry bits of life; 
why are they so angry?
it seems they want more,
it seems almost as if they
are angry
that they are flies;
it is not my fault;
I sit in the room
with them
and they taunt me
with their agony;
it is as if they were
..."></div>
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