Sunday, 24 July 2011


They fly and settle; settle, twitch and stand on

legs, necks, stems, windows, buds;

endeavoring not to draw attention to themselves.

Two hundred million of them for every

person standing on a wet planet.

You get on the weigh-scales one sunny day

and two tons of insect drop and spin

the dial you focus on critically;

thirty times your weight, twitching and writhing

- a pyramid of little aliens, crawling.

The Campaign Against Cruel Sports,

Beethoven, even poetic Shakespeare,

are tiny human accidents compared

to terror, anger, revulsion at these mites

and the fear of your own insect-like state.

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