Malathion, malevolent sky fly, late night low hum, wide formations,
whirling insects blinking out maledictions, malignant rain from
flying spray cans, falling like a sticky curtain from magic wands
which course in the darkness.

Shall I stand naked in the infancy of the day and bathe in this
toxic nectar, to open my arms up to the deluge, to embrace all
of the minute dying forms as they twitch their last little
spasms of being?

Shall I pour it upon my pancakes through spindly fingers of peeling
flesh and then run it through my hair and wipe it on my face?

Shall I quiver in a hole beneath the ground while the world above
becomes a ghostly land of yellow mists and shadows of lampposts on
empty streets, with beams of green and red lighting up the sticky
empty fog?

Malathion, sitting in drums, arrayed in rows, with skulls and
crossbones, malodorously hiding in some unknown wharehouse or
some tanker truck in the bowels of a ghastly refinery, proclaiming
better dying through chemistry, as the long phalanxes of insect
doom rumble on and on.

Apocalyptic envelopment by a galaxy of tiny drops in the ever
widening campaign, the the deathly mist, in the latest screwy
gimmick to overcome them which proceeded us and which shall
follow us, which feed upon our refuse, which yearn to lap the
sweetness of our fruits and of our syrups.