There is no one left
to remember
that boiling water in eggshells
will catch me out.

I remain:
the homely child,
torturer of cats,
bereft of any power
save lack of conscience.

Even cold iron
has given way
to silicon and plastic.

What kills me by increments
is not your black metal
or mummy-dry churches:
it’s the boredom
of seasons passing unnoticed
while I hump my ass
over a keyboard
to pay the rent.

I had centuries of joy
under sidhe hills
before my exile.

Human tedium
is the slowest strangle.
But you know all about that.