The Banana Fly Colony

Darkness sinks itself upon Coppercoin Street 30. Time ticks slowly past the number 12 on the kitchen clock. Both arms, pointing straight up. That means it's night. Late.
And in apartment 90, the Poet is still up. Still standing strong. Fixing things. Mending them. Taking care of stuff that should'ave been fixed ages ago. Might as well do them now as any other time. And why not? She's awake, isn't she? So what if the Ruby's gone to sleep? He aint supposed to help her out anyhow. It's her turn to fix. Fix and mend. So she does.
Weirdly enough, things almost shine around the apartment. Rise and shine. Cause all of a sudden, the Poet's been struck by some kind of cleaning mania. Clean one room no longer means, pick up the dirty clothes on the floor. It means: pick up everything that is lying around. Sort and throw out with the trash. Move the remaining things to the next room. Spray, wipe, hoover, mop the floors. Wait til it's dry. Move the stuff back in, carpet on, and tadaa! Look how nice it looks. Well, with the existing conditions in consideration, snapping a shot of this home could almost earn you a place in the upcoming IKEA catalogue.
Wonder how long that'll last.
The most challenging thing so far has been trying to find out where all the banana flies come from. Seems they've built themselves some kind of colony somewhere. Most likely in the kitchen. It's had a funny smell lately, but the Poet's just figured it's the trash. Should take it out. But when she's done that, the smell is still present. So it's just down to tracking your old hunting instincts up, putting the rubber gloves on, and dig in.
The kitchen has now been transformed into a jungle. There are dangers everywhere, and possibly booby traps. Gotta be careful where you put your foot around here, and where you stop to rest. The Poet smells and sniffs. Looks around for a sign of the fly colony. Hmm... there's one. A banana fly. Tiny one, but still. If it's just been hatched, it should be staying pretty close to home, as not to get lost. The Poet pulls her ears back and starts sneaking. Slowly... don't want to wake anything. She lifts a leaf or two, looking under them. No success. This part of the jungle is still to clean to holster anything that would make them flies hatch like that. Moving on.
The Poet takes a deep breath. Never has she been so far away from home, and never has the jungle been so intimidating. Cause she's closing in now. She prepares herself with her secret weapon. Steps closer. Holding her breath. Another banana fly half-heartedly soars by. Dozing... means it's just had its meal. Should be very, very close by now...
And suddenly...
There...
There it is.
The Poet hurriedly covers her eyes for protection from the horror ahead. The nest is huge! Greenish, greyish, sort of spots all over it, and in and out of it, the banana flies are zooming, feeding from the long lost life of what has provided them a home, the long lost life of...
Spaghetti. Is that really what it is?
The Poet awkwardly steps closer to inspect, and seconds later, she confirms. This has once been a spaghetti bowl, ages and ages ago. Unrecognizable now, of course. Hostile, to anyone but the weather-beaten (oh yes. The Poet looked the word up. It is, believe it or not, how it is actually said.) rejects of society - the banana flies. It is a dangerous place to stick around at for too long, even for someone as experienced in kitchen fighting as the Poet. Something needs to be done, and quickly. The flies must be diverted... so that an attack can be directed strictly at the heart of their nest. That should finish them and keep them away, at least for the most immediate of future.
Dramatically gesturing, The Poet rushes towards the nest, shouting an own-composed war jingle while she does it, and the surprise element of her attack actually scares off most of the flies. But she is very well aware, that they won't be gone for long. They will see through her diversion, and the next step of her plan, and return with backup. Bigger... nastier... banana flies. She must act quickly, very quickly, in order to save herself from this cruel fate.
The Poet raises her secret weapon, flings herself forwards to the nauseating nest in her attempt to neutralize this disturbing threat, her weapon is raised to the very maximum height possible, she must act now, act now, save us, save us all from the flies...!
The Poet squeezes the trigger...
The former spaghetti bowl is slowly being covered in washing-up liquid. The foam is rising to the edges of the bowl. Then the Poet flips over the bowl, most of the nest goes down the drain. The rest she scoops up and throws in the trash can. Empties the trash can, takes out the trash, heads back inside.
In the jungle, things are quite still again. And not a banana fly to be seen.
All thanks to the heroic efforts of THE POET IN THE JAR. Thank you for reading this far...

Fancy A Fisherman?

That's right, I'm marching on back along this path, I gotta go sort out the Poet's life. Yeah, I tried to let her do without me for a while, but it seems she didn't do too well. I guess we're all dependent. The way the Poet is dependent on me, I'm dependent on Grey's Anatomy on Wednesday nights. Fact is, problems seldom arise with this, that is, in case you don't know what to be dependent on.

So I'm moving in for her now. I'm making her decisions for her for a while. Sitting behind that glass for too long probably aint healthy. I better wipe it off for her, so she'll do better without me, so she'll learn how to do it herself, she's gotta start depending on herself, you know. At some point, I mean, eventually. There's no way I'm gonna stick around forever, I've got too much a stuffed calendar for that, but what the heck. For now, fine, why don't I just teach the starving Poet how to catch her own fish.
_____________________________________________

Something strange came over me, as if suddenly the decisions were starting to make themselves. As if suddenly everything seemed so obvious and clear. I found a ruby down the mines. All around it there were other stones, one shinier than the other, sparkling at me from every corner of those walls. And even though I was scared, thinking the shaft was gonna fall down on me any second, I stopped to look at and simply admire all this glistening. All this shine, and all these riches. Anyone for me to take. Anyone! The biggest one, the prettiest one, the shiniest one, the one with the unusual sparks, anyone I fancied the most I could just pick up and put in my pocket and I could use it to make myself temporarily happy, show it off to the world.
I stopped to think. These were all beautiful stones. But something in their glimmering told me of greed and desiring fame and riches. Features that would bring me down, along with the rest of the human kind.
On the ground, real low, lay a ruby in the dirt. It wasn't trying to display itself. It was just happy with lying there in the mud, and when I picked it up, it seemed surprised to even be found.
And now I know. I've decided to keep it. Hell yeah. I'm gonna keep it...