Our mosquito rises, repellently, elegaically, on its flight – zigzagging, ghostly, and dangly, towards its victim: our plump darling, sat drinking iced milk through a straw in a flowery, dainty summer dress and some banal, little powdery rose perfume she has pilfered from her mother’s table.
She know the insects love her, so she is slathered, also, in citronella, in a futile attempt to stave off the little bastards that always have her skin come up so hard: so rude; ruddy and elevated; the metallic, synthetic deetness of her sprayed repellent mingling, absorbedly, with her rosebuds: her warm, milky afternoon breath.
In her sunhat, under the shade of her favourite tree, on this boiling hot July day, she is reading.
” What do you stand on such high legs for?
Why this length of shredded shank,
Queer, with your thin wings and your streaming legs
How you sail like a heron, or a dull clot of air,
Queer, how you stalk and prowl the air
In circles and evasions, enveloping me,
Ghoul on wings
Settle, and stand on long thin shanks,
Eyeing me sideways, and cunningly conscious that I am aware,
I hate the way you lurch off sideways into air,
Having read my thoughts against you”
(she bats herself, unconsciously, swiping away imagined, invisible insects……)
“Come then, let us play at unawares,
And see who wins in this sly game of bluff,
Man, or mosquito.”
The creature is honing in greedily. Blindly, on its goal, a huge, perfumed mountain of pink human flesh on which it can gorge; torrents of blood to be tapped; siphoned, to fill itself silly……
” Blood, red blood,
it thinks to itself, steadying itself now, stealthily swooning down through the stench of citronella, which will not stop it; clenched with purpose.
That delectable plasm.
The irony is not lost on her.
” I behold you stand
For a second enspasmed in oblivion,
Sucking live blood
Such silence, such suspended transport,
Such obscenity of trespass.
As well you may;
Only your accursed hairy frailty,
Your own imponderable weightlessness,
Saves you, wafts you away on the very draught my anger makes in its snatching.
Away with a paen of derision,
You winged blood drop.”
Frowning, profusely sweating, livid, she swats hysterically, all cloying rose and sour milk rising up from her, curdled with deet, as the insect fills its consciousness orgiastically with deep, foul, red; its outer membranes drowning up with iron and the delectable fat girl’s platelets.
But she has had the upper hand…..
“Can I not overtake you?
Are you one too many for me,
Am I not mosquito enough to out-mosquito you?”
It has been too greedy.
“Queer, what a big stain my blood makes
Beside the infinitesimal faint smear of you!
Queer, what a dim dark smudge you have
Its endeavour has been pointless: nasty, smelly, much like this gimmicky little perfume of ‘milk and blood’……….. in reality just a citronella-laced, cheapo, powder gum rose, and something stomach churning, metallic, nasty, lurking within its belly.
She stomps back into the house.