Inside those tunnels,

I imagined rats, gnawing, chewing, ready to bite

down and feast on my flesh, the gatherers

at James Herbert’s wake in Liverpool

that night, as we toasted the horror of man

and the brain that seized them all,

made the connection between sex and the

ability to frighten, the strange allure

of the thrill in every page,

was down in those tunnels even now,

sharpening his pencil, readying his wit

to kill us, one by one, by one

who knew how to extend the torture

of the corrupted soul;

there are rats in these tunnels,

they gnaw and bite down hard

on the doubts in our own minds.

Ian D. Hall 2018