The fly by night.
The fly in the ointment.
The fly in amber.
The fly on the wall.
The fly on the wall
in Hans Memling’s Portrait of a Carthusian
often considered as a momento mori
though it could be a demonic distraction from prayer.
Or a model of seraphic stillness.
Holub’s fly at the Battle of Crécy.
The five kinds of fly I counted today
on a single umbrel of the yarrow
including a greenbottle,
with crimson headlights and cupreous bodywork,
avidly hoovering pollen
through a black trumpet thicker than its legs.
The black-and-white human fly by Luc Tuymans
undergoing a sinister metamorphosis.
The fly in the film The Fly.
The fly in the remake of The Fly.
The fly on the frieze in the mercato di lana at Pompeii.
The fly that bit the flying horse that caused the fall
of Bellerephon into a thorn bush.
The fly without teeth
but a copious supply of saliva.
The fly in the coal-shed that Mahon
set beside the Winged Victory of Samothrace,
so braced aginst each other it’s hard to know
which of them he thought up first.
The flies of Machado, Blake and Dickinson.
But that’s enough fly poems
though there also ‘the marble fly’: Mandelstam’s nickname.
They fly’s stealthy oviposter
that prises open a dead linnet’s beak
under the patient eye of Jean Henri Fabre.
Una mosca muerta: used of someone not especially attractive.
The fly on the pedestal not yet constructed
in the plaza major of the city of flies.
Beelzebub, the lord of the flies.
The fly within, the inner fly.
The fly that flew from the list of flies.
The fly that stops its din when you switch the light off
but starts again at dawn, and needs to check
whether you’re still among the quick or dead.
The fly whisk; the fly swatter; fly spray;
The Fully Guaranteed Electric Fly Killer
– escalations in the war against the fly.
The fly that survived.

[Read in Out There, published by Faber & Faber.]


what then, these upgrades, these new estates, these
new lifts that stop on every floor, and three
per block, one at each corner. you think we
did not know how to do this in the 80s?
and all of these convenient criss-cut paths,
that hurry them from car to flat. move on,
move on, close door, close window, on air con.

we were building a home, not finding faster
ways to get them to their homes. what common
ground do they share beyond void decks? tell
me why they’d stand together without lifts?
you want to build community? a modern
shiny building? pffft.
——————————-listen to this:
turn off the taps, and sink a common well.


[Read in Sonnets from the Singlish, published by Math Paper Press. Ripped from]

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
petals on a wet, black bough.


Widely, widely known. Always, always brilliant.