Day 23 - Coming For Me

The diagram of red lights playing on the ceiling -
some devil mark, some curse?
Like Germanicus finding a slaughtered hen
stowed beneath loose floor tiles,
do I look up from my barely-rest-let-alone-death bed
to find some lurking taunt,
strong as a hand-across-apple gesture
made by a lean Yakuza?
I remember the pillow of smoke and pentagon
in Devil Rides Out, the crummy special effect
of a ram-headed croucher phasing in,
Christopher Lee at his most sensitive:
"The goat of Mendes! The devil himself!"
Then the migrating gumbo of neons
in the house down the hill, in Amersham,
lounge window then bedroom window.
Did some sneak son of mine
scribble in ultra-violet, standing
on my unsteady chair?
Is someone projecting a laser
through the icicle of glass between the curtains?
My knee slams the bookcase as I get up,
brush the lightswitch, stand naked,
looking at the left-on battery charger,
its red eye burning.