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.