Happy birthday greygirlbeast

Leviathan

There are black smoking vents, where all that breathes
would die. Yet things breathe there and call it home
who perish elsewhere. There's a massive dome
lost in those depths. A tendril slowly wreathes

its way up, round a pillar, up again
onto the architrave. It seeks the sky
it senses far above, yet it would die
burst like a bubble. We would go insane

if we should see it. Yet we know it's there-
it haunts our dreams, it nourishes our art.
Has power over us, because apart.
A presence we depend on like the air.

And you, dear Beast, if we could see you clear
would madden, yet we praise for being here.

I really am not happy about the state of UK politics

Tories

We meet them in a bar, perhaps. They smile
and we don't count their teeth. Perhaps we should
but they seem charming, civilized and good.
And all is fine for now. But all the while

the moon is waxing. And a week goes by.
They show us wallet photos of their son.
Talk vaguely of some silly things they've done
when they were younger. In a clear night sky

the moon comes full. Their features stretch and melt
hair, fangs and muzzle. They writhe on the ground.
You run but hear the whining questing sound
of grim beast tracking you. They sniffed, and smelled

you earlier. Load silver in your gun
The next encounter with them won't be fun.