So many years,
Lifetimes ago,
They saw him walking by the sea.
Their curious eyes
Found something new,
So they wondered what he could be.

They called him Fire,
For every night,
A mournful blaze marks his camp.
And many pairs
Of curious eyes,
Watch him shiver, cold and damp.

How he would rise
From where he lay,
To greet the morning sun each day,
Or bow his head,
His arms outstretched,
And reaching for the sky,  he'd pray.

They called him Fire,
For when he eats,
The trees are filled with deathly smoke,
And as he stood,
Above his ****,
With tear - filled eyes,  he often spoke.

To ask relief,
From sacred names,
A penance for the life he'd ended,
And swear anew,
To end his shame,
That he'd see balance once more mended.

And so he marched,
Into the trees,
And there he found my Mother's den,
Where curiously,  he offered meat,  
And said,

"I've come to call you 'friend. '"

You are encased in your world of flower;
Whilst I suffer in the pit below
that wolf at the door is me.

He is the leader of my pack
and when he howls others follow in tick tack
tight formation, his howl has rendered cowards
to fits of madness, coward!

I am that too he says? hahaha!
A fit of vortex light burning brightly over there, you fool!
Screams the wolf,
'you do not know the box you have opened!'

'I do!'
I have opened the post it says sickness and fit,
a spice awakening in Sheffield, and not just the drugs
not working in Manchester,
as Ashcroft once sang banging his shoulders
into every passer by, why? For the hell of it,
take no prisoners, proper Manc wolf style.

And I will burn your souls with words, O burn those bridges burn;
I will crush you with every click of the typewriter
you seek to burn me, call me drunk and ****** and fool,
I forget you! ha! Neit papa! Neit Mama!

Da Christopher! I have made such art and wonders
so see I am not to be taken lightly.
I have danced with death, not once but twice
and lived to tell the tale, captured foes forever
their grimaces frozen in time.

In the dead of night when I have no desire
for both shallow words and drunken wounds and late night calling-
your 'fatal fallacies'
I will burn these images and all the old
word scribbled in spider handwriting
by me that eldest poet, and soul.
That fire shall bring solace.

I hate you, as much as I hate myself;
forever smoking in the corner
and laughing at deaths wings,
as it winks at me underneath
cloaked eyes of shallow indifference -

Off with you and your 'perfect' life too.
Bitter wolf blinks, and cannot sleep,
Oh look how I am red and rendered, insomnia
red eyed and twitching, shocks all over sighs the poet,
Never call me again, drunken witches. Vampires
and bloodsuckers.

Alive still and struggling against the call
of it. Defiantly myself, whilst others crawl
to the windowpane of the widows to cradle the light.
I am encased in darkness, and search for my window-
fools allay me from my path, winding, twisting to
love.

I am burning. This fire it will not cease, this is
the end. My first friend, thrown to the fire,
her fate is sealed, she is undoubtedly married.

My pack is pleased, and giggle in the night,
drunk on the strength of passion! and *****!
ACC WOO AGH
Nein Nein Nein
Neit! Da! Da!

I grin through bared teeth,
Always gnashing and grinding.

You stalk the wood on fleeting foot,
your ruff a misty grey,
like silent death, you hunt your ****
your eyes fixed on your prey.

Your lips drawn back, a silent snarl,
a growl caught in your throat,
your teeth sunk into now-still flesh,
dark blood stains on your coat.

You stalk the shade of empty woods,
as graceful as your ****,
look to the moon, my friend, and howl
as silent woods grow still.

dog
all night long
dog
your old song
dog
all night long

how
your friends  
yelp
growl  howl
dog
your old song

dog
all night long
dog
mad decibel gall  
dog
your old song

dog
one pelts stone
dog
guard flings stick
dog
your old song

dog
your old song
dog
your old song
dog
all night long

run
dog
run
dog
run

early
tomo'
morn

dog
catcher
prowling

run
dog
run
dog
run

run
dog
run
dog
run