I sometimes sit for hours
Watching the flies dance
Irrepressibly round the shade,
(What attracts them when no light shines?
Potential for light? I wonder…),
Their too-fast wings like an aura
Around their full-stop bodies.
Some nihilistic cult could take a tip or two
From their absurd antics.
And yet, such sparkle, such vitality:
One can almost imagine
Their smiles and whoops of joy
If Nature had allowed.
Sometimes they inspire me to yawn,
And maybe make a move,
Fulfill some bodily requirement,
Even venture further afield.
But mostly my torpor requires
Something more stirring to break.
(One day I must by some fly spray).

The clouds are knitting their brows outside,
Weighing down on the corrugated warehouse roof
Which undulates sickeningly
As the breeze billows my net curtains.
Maybe soon a splinter of righteous lightning
Will cleave that offensive red-brick tomb,
And open up new vistas from my window,
Maybe almost to the street beyond.
A room with a view of a room with a view;
Something to stare at; 
A fantasy relationship.

From time to time a cursory stock-take:
One door, stiff. One window, cracked. Walls, four.
All present and corroding.
One wall scaled with various maps,
Somewhere to turn when I feel lost,
Places to go, rivers to cross.
Another half-shrouded in technicolour,
Gaudy student posters: use them to exhibit
Your individuality, like everyone else does.
Another wall, bare, staring. Another, damp.
Grey and maroon austerity, Gothic even,
With the arched haunts of spiders
Clinging idly in dusty corners.
(None around the lampshade, I notice.
They could make a killing there).

Just as idly, rain spatters in
On the accidentally Picasso-esque lino
Where the carpet wouldn't stretch.
(Maybe an ornamental pond would look well?).
Still the idle tears plip and spread
And slowly evaporate, releasing their souls.
And with the contrapuntal plipping
Another rhythm becomes distinct:
The steady metronomic heartbeat of time,
Clanking and grating on the ear,
Amplifying into a clangorous din,
Until I am surrounded
By a grotesque clockwork chaos
Pointing with fingers of white noise...

Another day has passed me by.