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a poem about a little murder |
Dreams in the damp village night are broken by a thin whine and an idea some moving thing is with me in my room. The whine again. I rise from my bed - nobody's feast! But the noise has gone. I search each blemish on the the wall, the ceiling - mute shadows dance a light-moth tango - but only silence. I must find it - I fear the consequence of failure. And I have an image of the thing waiting in some secret corner, waiting just for me. I must find it - but I am tired and thinking of sleep. Is it also thinking of my sleep? Vampire insect, my nightmare, watching me, waiting by my nakedness, spindly legs apart, straddled, comfortable, braced, savoring the moment before it wallows - bacchantic fly, drunken reveller... Then I see it, on the wall, above the dripping tap. I close in slowly, carefully, watchful; see now the body quiver, some base indigenous rhythm. I will press out it's life with a stiffened hand. And with no compassion for a natural innocence, no thought of regret for a little murder to be committed, I strike the wall and note the tiny splash of someone elses blood. |