Sonnet 58

Cher requin, basking in your murky dregs,
dream in your sleep of chewing surfers’ legs.
A shark preceding in your role once served
as Baptist to your Christ. But age makes old,
rots shambles inefficiently preserved,
though Saatchi stretched its skin on plastic mould.
Because formaldehyde congeals your veins
(plus flame retardants made by Albemarle?),
and Hirst’s minions fisted your faecal drain,
still, petrified in your vitrine, you snarl;
and in MOMA eternally shall swim,
a testament to the decline of art,
an adman’s cynical, corrupting whim,
displayed like Tracy Emin’s bottled farts.