Let’s celebrate the aberration, consecrate miscalculation
eulogise a solecism, christen every trip, omission,
sing the mediocre’s praises (out of tune, and time, of course) and hoarse
although we can’t endorse the fall with all
we cherish the mistake. the bend, the break, and greet it with a smile.
The owl born when the sculptor sneezed, its strange repeating symmetries
the wrinkled face, descending folds, melted, drawn, it sags forlorn
so glassy-faced and glassy-eyed, from the neck all down one side.
it slopes, like an ill-fastened cloak, chance invokes
The image of
an overweight pug
having a stroke.
Show me sub-par oil paintings,
strange things, where kings
and queens are reported
but distorted, as if through a lens
of myopia and acid
where ear and nose and chin distend,
three-fingered hands grasp blurs
room slurs with corners
yawning into awning
roof falls into floor
melt into shoulders,
windows lack both glass and view.
But most delectable
that ineffectual of spectacle
the thing that really can be beaten:
tragic thaumaturges try and fail
to find the card (it’s hard)
while knives fall out of the assistant.
distant cries disguise the fact
a dove, fate-freed, tunnels the magicians’ sleeve
taking two fake notes
and one false hand.
crashing with it to the floor.
Let’s celebrate the aberration
eulogise a solecism,
christen every trip, omission, common and garden mistake.
Let England shake
on cheap foundations, patience vacant
as we fill our tills with things that don’t do what it says on the tin.
let us please create a land of
shoddy crafts and half-baked plans
where things ends not with whimpers or bangs
but because the piece of paper
is the wrong size.