The Blue Ringed Octopus dispenses its ink cartridge,
screaming ‘octopoeds!’ from dark recesses.
Irritable, glows iridescent blue, undresses you
and popping from an alcove gives you the wretched prod.
Wintertime but no snow in the oceans, only colder.
Sea-life given the cold-shoulder, the life-ender
but warmth of magma keeps the octopus ticking over,
always coiled and shacked up in some shabby hole
but a hole that is a home, nonetheless, and decorated
with cadavers, pillowed sea-weed, billowing capes;
crowns of skulls of all our failed bailiffs
left delicately stagnating, to taste.