The Son Of Mr. Toad Hammers Arabesques In Search Of A Concubine, But No-one Will Enter The Ritual, Perhaps Because Of His Rhythmic Dissonance

he staggers in primordial circles,
stomping to a music whose neon defies revision,
smashing his butts in a shatter of sparks
which are scattered but not invasive.

it is a rite of nicotine and green ash
that attracts no chance of mating:
a fairy ring of loneliness
in this fusion of puke and laughter.