I’m in a small cold place
perched on the edge, the solo late
night representative of Shell.
I’m researching the after
-life, heaven or hell, really can’t tell.
Muffled shadows shift beyond bullet
-proof glass, reveal inner
shit. Look away, look away.
Unleaded or diesel, Red Bull or Rizla,
Twix or a bit of smut, reformed
cheese sarnies, sausage rolls, Golden
Wonder or a pint full cream.
I don’t give a damn, all pie in the sky.
Make sure you buy before you die.
Dive in from the black
well into my bright, where pumped up
demons and angels self
-service, sniff hydro-carbon light.
It is the hour of the wolf,
and we are all overdue.