Spitting Flies

I sit and spit whole flies on a dusty floor,
nothingness comes close but I soon reject
Particles are disturbed as the flies soar.
now, I believe those parts get my respect.

The day didn’t start good, soon got worse,
to many parts of my life keep shrinking.
Not as if we’re given a chance to rehearse,
why does a widget in a can get me thinking.

Whose in the centre stirring this great pot,
surely they must have a sterile gentle spoon.
Who decides whom to mix or who’re not,
you think it’s a god deciding where to prune?

The sherbet mixed in water was a favourite,
fizzes up and makes your nose really tingle.
Poor people had to be content with a lot of shit,
in certain areas the ingredients didn’t ever mingle.

What am I saying as these flies like words dry up?
hands don’t fit the basin anymore, that frightens.
What if the water overflows an old broken cup?
surely we all return as a particular, that enlightens.