Forty-five
years ago Eduardo Embry came from ‘the England of South America’ to a
country green as a crocodile, where
Sunday always lasts all day and there are no angels in the allotments. Dead Flies is a book of tall-tales,
fables, riddles and unlikely stories about the strange, sly logic of
disobedient matter and the ‘indecent mischief’ of things – a bloody razor, the
modesty of trees, books with blue eyes, a Cartesian glass of water and poems
that speak to themselves. Philosophical, playful, lyrical and absurd, Embry
marches backwards on argumentative feet, with seven wise men arguing in his
head and fiery words in his prostate, wondering why God moves like a motorbike,
flies play dead, everything falls under the auctioneer’s hammer and heaven
roars with laughter.