The animal garden
Is now a murder-hole.
Language was always the Labyrinth.
Civilisation is striving, spurning
mass graves and marble tombs,
wonderful wine and no-one to drink it with
but the Black Riders
the achievers, civilised dealers
in death, machine-mad
half-controlling the machine.
They are the forms of desire
(suppression of grace, the soul's death)
stencils of men,
teeth in the maw
of perpetual war
against Nature and grace
as the planet of pain and vainglory
Like most werewolves I find very few
humans that I actually like.
Like most werewolves
I find only large quadrupeds and other
werewolves sexually attractive.
In front of the fire or out in the byre
we hug and caress and make slow,