Ammit is the crocodile-lion-hippo who’ll eat your heart if it weighs more than a feather when you die. She’s picky.

The proper preparation of a heart
For my consumption takes a lot of work.
Unseasoned, they are barely palatable.
The recipe is simple: Some brutality
Adds spice. And selfishness will tenderise
The meat. Resentment adds a pleasant tang.
Be cruel. Be mean. Grow bitter as you age.
And when Anubis comes to weigh your heart
He’ll find it wanting. Toss the thing to me
And I’ll at least appreciate your gift,
And thank you for the snack that you prepared.

I’m not trapped in some magical lamp, look at me!

I’m the size of a human, that much you can see!

And the lamp in your hand, that I magically came from

Far too little for me to fit into

And yet,

And yet.

So, what does that tell you?

DING DING!

Either I can get smaller,

Or it can get big on the inside.

(For goodness sake,

Don’t start describing your headcanons, please.

No, I’m not The Doctor.

No, no Jinn was ever a doctor

What the hell is a Timelord anyway?)

So, at least we’ve established, my home is enough

The wifi’s not great, the reception is rough

The bronze walls interfere with the signal, but then

It’s secluded and comfortable: pleasantly zen,

Room for me and perhaps the odd guest, now and then.

I’m not trapped in this bottle, you see,

But there’s one thing we should clear up, once and for all:

I’m not waiting here, to be set free.

By some dumb passer by on a quest

Who is fresh out of luck and thinks he

By some well meaning spirit is blessed…

No.

When you rub on the lamp, you do not release me

You’re stopping me having a moment of peace, see

I’m nobody’s slave, but my name’s on the lease. Be

A darling. Move on. And don’t bother me please!

It’s all my own fault, yes, I set up the bargain

You rub on the lamp, and then boom! Here you go!

You’ve earned your three wishes: exactly enough

To get you in trouble. Not out of it, no,

The idea was to put all you gold-diggers off.

Let you tie yourself up in impossible knots

And think “Better not bother the Genie again!”

“We shall know better now, than to mess with a Jinn!”

But instead, you came flocking, like idiot crows

To extract your three wishes, for everyone knows

That the Jinn is just dying to serve all your wants

Doesn’t think you’re a bunch of self-satisfied cunts!

Not at all, just come rub on his lamp, and you’ll see:

He will solve all your problems with his wishes three!

No.

Fuck off.

The deal’s off

Please just leave me alone.

Don’t set up a meeting, don’t email, don’t phone..

And don’t rub on my lamp!

If you do, I’ll make certain

The wishes you make lead to your final curtain.

I’m sick of you people! I really can’t win

Tell me, where is the tonic to temper this Jinn?

This is a really nasty one. The Ai is a Persian monster, somehow both invisible and red, who preys on women in labour.

*Content warning for the things that can go wrong with a birth.

Do not let her labour alone.
Go to her, and keep all the lamps burning
Take precautions. Put iron round the bed.
Sing your prayers, and perhaps I will spare her.

Because I am the fear before birth
I’m that thought: “What if something goes wrong?”
I’m the stain on your anticipation
I am Ai. And I’ll take what I want to.

And perhaps I’ll attack from within:
Take the mother and baby together,
Or perhaps I will wait for the birth:
Let her taste of her joy, and then take it.

You can’t stop me. I’ll do what I please.
But perhaps, just perhaps, you’ll be lucky –
You’ll discourage me. Well, it’s worth trying!
So perform all your sweet little rituals.

And do not let her labour alone.
Go to her, and keep all the lamps burning
Take precautions. Put iron round the bed.
Sing your prayers, and perhaps I will spare her.
Perhaps Ai will not.

So, um, I may have been reading about manticores and listening to a podcast about RuPaul’s Drag Race at the same time. And this happened. So in the style of those raps the finalists always have to insert into a RuPaul music video, I give you this sickening bitch from ancient Persia.

Persian phenomenon: gaze on my glory!
The face of a queen, but the rest of me’s gory:
A leonine body, a sting in my tail:
Don’t come for me bitches, cause you’re gonna fail!
And yes I love men, but is that such a crime?
I like to eat two, even three at a time!
Yes I am the monster that you all adore
The queen of the jungle: the great manticore!

I don’t know a huge amount about rocs, other than that they’re enormous birds that carry off elephants and other large animals. I couldn’t help wondering how the population decline of various species would affect them.

Many thousands of miles have I flown
I am tired, but I cannot stop hunting
I must fly, seeking food for my chicks,
Each one growing so fast. They are hungry.

Though my wings start to ache as they flap
And I find that the wind cannot lift me.
I must find something soon. I must eat,
And then bring something back for my children.

But the elephants, where have they gone?
And the buffalo, I cannot find them.
I have flown to the place where I saw
Many thousands, but now, next to nothing.

All the food that once nourished my kind
Is so scarce now: I don’t understand it.
But these creatures which chatter and walk
On two legs. They are plentiful. Maybe

It is time for a change. They are small:
It will take a great many to feed us:
For my children and I, we are hungry.
But they’re everywhere. This will be easy.

For these creatures, they do not run fast.
We must change if we wish to survive this.
We will eat what we find. We’ll adapt.
It’s survival, you see, of the fittest.

A Moroccan ogre, who serves similar child-frightening purpose to Bloodybones.

Boukhencha’s going to get you, dear
He’s coming with his sack
And if he takes you to his cave
You won’t be coming back.

He eats up little children there
The ones who never do
Just what their mothers tell them.
Yes, the ones, my dear, like you.

Who never help around the house,
But stay and play outside
Who say they were at school
And then you find out that they lied

Who never eat their vegetables,
But always gobble sweets;
For sweetened flesh is just the kind
Boukhencha loves to eat.

So listen to your mother, dear,
And always do your chores
And study hard at school
Instead of sneaking out of doors

And always eat your vegetables
Because, my dear, it’s true:
Boukhencha hates the way they taste
Almost as much as you!

I wanted to write a poem about a ghoul, so I did some research. Turns out, in some Arabic folktales, ghuls are actually female shapeshifters that lure men into their homes to eat them. (Umm Ghula means “Mother Ghoul”.)

Hot ghuls in YOUR area!
These seductive temptresses
Are HUNGRY for you
To come over for dinner
And maybe more!

These sweet and smiling girls
Can transform themselves
Into whatever your heart most desires
And then, between the sheets,
You’ll find them more than ready for you:
Rapacious, wild, voracious…
Are YOU the man to satisfy their needs?

Why not find out TONIGHT?
Call 1-800 UMMGHULA
And let our luscious ladies
Show you what they’re REALLY like
Behind closed doors!

UMM GHULA: Satisfaction guaranteed.

Audio version performed by Niamh

The person I was part of died
In agony. Too soon. and I
Remained behind.
And now I find
I can’t remember being me:
The me that was. That used to be
More than just hate
But it’s too late.
I roam the earth, I seek revenge
I’m smoke and fire. I am the change
I want to see.
But would I be
So keen to wreak this havoc if
I hadn’t lost the rest of me?

I was so small, a little ball of fluff.
Not much to look at, just a runt, they said:
The ones who came to take me from my mother.
I growled at them, they laughed derisively.
For who was I, a little mongrel whelp,
To bare my milk teeth at the mighty Aesir?
But one of them scratched me behind my ears
And let me lick his fingers. Salty, sweet.
I liked that one. That one smelled like a friend.

I met the Alpha, no, the Allfather.
He laughed at me, and called me “Little nephew”.
I didn’t understand. But then he said
That wolves were sacred to him, so despite
My parents, and my dangerous reputation
He’d suffer me to live among the gods.
If I could be a good dog for my master.
He called me dog? He thought he was my master?
I did briefly consider trying to bite him.
But even Tyr, the one with the kind hands
And friendly smell, cringed in his mighty presence
I whined, rolled over.
Hoped that I looked cute

I started growing fast, and didn’t stop
At wolf size, or at bear size. Or at dragon.
At first they were impressed. Then they were frightened,
Remembering I was no normal wolf
But of the Jötnarr. I was Giant-born.
And now I was no longer small, or cute
And when I snarled and bared my pointed teeth
I noticed that the gods no longer laughed.
Not any more. They cringed. I rather liked that.

But Tyr, of the kind hands, he still loved Fenrir
He played with me, and scratched behind my ears
Would even put his hands between my jaws.
And roll around with me. Such was his trust.
And of them all, I loved him. Although Odin
Proclaimed himself to be my only master,
If I was ever anybody’s dog
I wasn’t his: he never smelled of friendship.
But Tyr, I really did believe he loved me.

They came to me. All smiles, smelling of treason
The Aesir. Even Tyr. They said they’d brought me
A game, a challenge. Something that would prove
To all the worlds, that I was now the strongest.
My ears pricked up. And then they brought the chains.

I yelped with laughter Those would never hold me!
I let them bind me. Bigger chains, then bigger
Were soon scrap metal, strewn around the floor.
And then they brought me something they called Gleipnir
A ribbon, though it did not smell of silk
It shone, although it did not smell of silver
They smiled, although they did not smell of friendship
And went to bind me. Snarling, I drew back.

But Tyr, my friend, came up, and scratched my ears
And said there wasn’t anything to fear.
I took his sweet hand in between my jaws
This was a game? Then he would not mind playing
Our old game. I could taste the tang of fear
Upon his skin. But he agreed. He nodded,

The Aesir bound me. I could not break free.
I looked at Tyr. He nodded once again
I closed my jaws. His hand was salty, sweet.
I would have been his dog, if he had loved me,
And for his sake, I would have served his Alpha:
His Allfather. But I am no-ones dog.
And one day, Fenriswolf will be revenged.

Hey, you heard this one?
Bet you won’t get it.
I love riddles, me.
OK, here we go.
What walks on four legs in the morning?
Two legs at noon
And three legs in the evening?

Go on, have a go:
You’ll NEVER guess it.
Nobody ever does.
…What?
Yeah. Yeah it’s “man.”
How the hell…?
I would have thought the fact that a man’s life isn’t literally the length of a single day,
and a walking stick isn’t literally a limb
Would throw you off.
But no. You got it.
Well done, Oedipus,
(You motherfucker.)