Three years ago, on an October Monday,
as rooks sarcastically called down from the trees,
he went into his final freeze, lost it, went gaga.
This cataclysmic event is recorded, we have it on CCTV,
downloaded, with GPS, faithfully burned to DVD.
Yet he regales us still with those tired familiar themes,
a combination of medium-grade pathos and low parody,
in those oh-so-catchy, rather tricky combinations,
so utterly repellent to his gaggle of critics,
so attractive to his growing legion of fans.
In a recent interview in Hello magazine
conducted in the artist’s rather dingy home,
stars of Daytime TV declined the offer of tea,
surrounded by cats (and quite possibly rats),
and half-eaten containers of ancient food.
The hirsute, the rather scantily-clad poet,
oblivious to winds whistling through broken windows,
insisted that inspiration came from the Attic Dance.
Rising from his bed of rubber, rather stubbly thorns,
(while admitting that nails were still rather beyond him)
He adopted a rigid and rather slantwise stance
at an angle of approximately forty degrees.
He had his left elbow on the windy window ledge
and his right leg gently waving in the air.
This, we were told, is how all good poems begin.
