Little Horrors

  A horror story wears its head
  with eyes like pimento snooker balls
  and the whole caboodle resting
  like a bird's nest on
  a broken trellis. It rears

  up, fingers hobbing like hooves
  across the baize
  of its narrative, trembling with static

  energy, too. Its dimpled slippers
  conceal horn and fur,
  shamble over the pages
  with a kind of witless integrity, before

  giving the neck a good cricking.
  Something jumps,
  a broken stub of pencil, or
  the dubious character on the keyboard:
  the one that

  gives the game away Christ what's that
  in the fire without fuss
  or even reflection.

  Its spine: scrawny. Someone
  has chewed the penultimate chapter
  with surprising hunger:
  perhaps the story, fed up
  with pretence, has got its hooks
  (and its fangs) stuck into
  the victim.

  Who of course is blithe and fair,
  and is quickly consigned
  by shovels of colour
  to the whim of the plot.

From the book Looks Familiar