My name is of no importance
as I sit here quietly breathing in dust from the beaten up
old chair you provided me with.
My clothes as crumpled as my un-digestable heart
in this crowded room, where you sit
comfortably and with an air of seething malice wait
for me
to admit that
all you need to know is that I am a poetry addict
and that it has been that way ever thus.
The intervention should be hailed a success
for I have gone at least a couple of hours since I
For the world in which the wolf may roam,
remember home
is where you left it,
but also the home-made can be anywhere
and anything you want it to be.
Take the year, a month, a moment,
or every so often raise a glass to the past
that put you where you are now
and only come back when the time is right.
You have always been a wolf,
you are the pride in us all,
your fur unbroken, bristles,
black and claws grab the opportunity ahead
For whom do we blame when we finally admit that the Devil is dead
and that God stopped caring after all.
There is no fire laden pit in which the cackle of a billion tortured lives
are heard screaming in agony and the taste of lingering sulphur
is a dietary supplement in which
to atone for the lack of space provided by a misdirected deed,
the ramblings of a sad lonely woman or the heresy of the scheming miser.
The Devil is dead…
he died a brutal death, in agony and with his forked tongue