Ruskin’s claims about the terrible and sportive grotesque are well known. The former lacks seriousness and expresses (a quick gloss) apathy; I am composed almost entirely of apathy, so I suppose that my poems may become more robustly proto-sublime if I can transfer that schizophrenic immobility into the past, content and so on (should we all?). Gratefully, it belongs there.
Let’s
Socrates bleats,
the poverty of pollution
(all things are waged in hours):
flexible counters have a leaden
poisoned ballistic. Stride,
have a total conviction in a
day’s simplicity with her.