That grace was some incongruous cartoon
Where lumbar flame and melt and mould, as if
Droop bimetallic broke not sweat nor stiff,
Strong limber, and warped not its cold cocoon.
With model rend, not jigsaw nor balloon,
And graded dive, and blend and bled flame swift,
And seemed to slide and liquid through sieve sift,
It leered and led through lead its nameless wound.
In rejection of Simon Armitage’s “The Convergence of the Twain”
Like child being raped the fox it shrieked
As though its pelt were pelted through the dark.
And fur on fir where spine contorted peaked
The fragrant fibres bristled ‘gainst the bark.
The shriek repeats, resounds, surrounds this freak
Of nature, brittle flesh this hooked staff breaks
And rips retracting raw and flapping weak
Torn canvas shreds of pleasure God forsakes
A stone through paper wet whose fellows, flint
That, wrapped round sticks and shafts with flimsy bind
A gleam in gloom, begat of earthy mint
The finest forge-work born of whimsy mind
Angelic rapeling in the dark I thought
But merely fox in grandeur right distraught.