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Craven was a frog upon my bog 

slender coelacanth, 

salamader in my deep recesses 

I never gave him pennance due, promises, protection, 

or trembly sweaty reverence 

I never recognized his slimy mission 

And so—great claw around my chicken neck 

as time goes on 

time is a pole stuck in the tide 

cast iron face glaring blankly 

towards the choppy surface 

Floating down into the darkness  

puncturing the tissue, fearing oblivion 

no wonder his glistening toes 

were UFOs—surprising blows, 

always 

my pencil jerks the words 

straight away from me 

and if they don’t belong 

they don’t belong to Craven 

and if I do not belong 

then what is I? 

it is not Craven 

Craven sleeps between my toes 

up my nose—in my ear, 

outside my fear 

when a storm comes calling 

he simply hides 

he has no problem 

he has no pride