I am the ghost in the machine

I am the ghost in the machine,

the elephant in the room,

the fly in the ointment,

the wolf in sheep’s clothing;

and I have a loathing

for what I am.

I am the ghost in the room,

the elephant in the machine,

the wolf in the ointment,

and the fly in sheep’s clothing;

and I have a loathing

of what I have become.

I am the wolf in the room,

the fly in the machine,

the elephant in the ointment,

the ghost in sheep’s clothing;

and I have a loathing for this type of poem,

where the combinations grow

with every word

ever more and more absurd –

I am the septic in the poem,

or should that be sceptic?

Anyway, as I was saying,

I am the poet

in the septic,

tank.

No, that’s not right…

I am the poet in the room,

sheepishly wearing wolf’s clothing,

flying in the ghost machine,

whilst coated in ointment…

allegedly.