The market hordes hemming him in,
A butcher, ruining their best
With blood and bone spraying, mishit
And chopped a guiding finger off
Below the second knuckle joint.
From pain, then rage at ‘Serves you right’,
‘That’s justice done’, I thought he’d go
On hacking ever faster as
The crowd, encouraging, clapped time,
Endorsing each blow as its own,
And wondered if this was a Greek
Peculiarity. Since in
‘The Histories’ of Herodotus
The Spartan king, Cleomenes,
Confined for madness to the stocks,
Cut bits off himself till he died,
Though whether to the beat of drums
The writer doesn’t say. But there
Was Hell’s Gate’s ‘Gabbett’ too, who out
Of mate’s meat chewed to thuds of rain
Upon his head more than nails down
To the quick, and I , feeding off
Myself for countless poems to harsh
Sharp tunes have all but vanished, picked
Clean to the marrow of my bones.