That doesn't mean we're happy about it; nor does it mean that you have to be, either. Regardless, this latest wordy ejaculation from Croyland demonstrates his fragile mental state, and no one is more interesting and worthy of scrutiny than a damaged artist. Long may he remain critically messed up!
One point of interest is his brief mention of former Conservative MP for Northeast Cambridgeshire, Malcolm Moss. We thought we might get something politically charged, which would have demonstrated an interest shift for Otter. We didn't.
Winter Rapes My Precious Bog
Flatly peat land, turning white,
Halting whiffs of muck-spread shite;
Turnips piled, obscuring light,
My Fenland playground, hid by night.
Crystal blanket pulled across,
Choking brown beneath the frost;
Bludgeons like a Malcolm Moss,
Lecturing in the ways of loss.
Passing pubs of ill repute,
Where Tony Martin hid from dues;
Snow is piled upon their rooves,
Hiding those forensic clues.
But I care more for silty sludge,
Than for a farmer with a grudge;
I cannot help but love so much,
That slippy, silty, Fenland sludge.