Perhaps this recent poem of mine has something to do with the monster:


He has it on his back,
the cannibal serial killer,
‘The Great Red Dragon
and the Woman Clothed with the Sun’,
Blake’s apocalyptic masterpiece
which he can only see
in mirrors, in his terrified
nakedness, a shrunken dream of glory
like the uncertain visions
afflicting the suicide bomber
on the pathway to paradise,
or the shining, many-coloured
road to perdition.

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