Z

Zealots

It’s feckin’ cold in Belfast, Jesus,
the dogs have nowhere to hump
and all the rain puddles have mud;
where’s a dog got to go
to get a clean drink these days,
with no owners to leave
out bowls of kindness or charity?

All the dogs do now is lick their balls
and wait; at least the free ones are left
alone to do so; Ganymedes, Cai Lun,
Origen and Boston Corbett moan
their loss, despite degrees of self-
infliction, lost in the kennels of
Skopsty, Heaven’s Gate and Cybele.

It’s feckin’ cold in Belfast, Jesus,
what with all these lifeless mutts
fouling their tongues onto the pavements,
cuckolded by their own spirits;
snarling, barking, slobbering
waves of hatred flowing freshly
from the hidden River Styx.

Let them keep in the dead, if only
to remind the living what lies in wait.