Mosquito Mania

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.