The devil over Brighton

I saw a large beetle over the town,
black as night and turned on a frame
high up fluttering, circling:
a descent into focus
and essential darkness.

Shiny, batwinged, split-tailed
on a hang-glider hiding
strangely regaled in glory:
local god of lethargy.

Eyes so long
that
slice
and
prong,
cut the brain,
dully ache
and confuse.

You die and you live . . .
all is bad, you think /
swallow hard and press on.
“Bloody hang-gliders”
“So dangerous!”

You get on with everything
doing what’s easier to do than not do,
along with the others in the swamp.

The devil over Brighton:
a mere insect of a man
not black but black red
in drugged blood.

Some tired day you recall
the day you died,
and why.

Shame.



       1986



(First published by Pentagraph Press in “Day of the Dog”, 1995.)