Bematist
Sisyphus calculating
counting
pacing taking the
measure of
the world from Alexandria
to the here and
now sees
the shadow reducing
along the curvature
of the earth
only
then to light up
the darkness
a moment
of water
caught
a well
slick
and
an
I
1
reflected on
a shimmering surface staring back gone
Decaocto or how long – a story of fate
Sunlight sliding through a window
a universe of dust motes
busy as atoms colliding
a door left open
a collared dove calling
on the kitchen table
a cup of coffee cooling -
the faint tracing of steam
unspooling in fragrant air -
a piece of string a knife
Alecto in the
revolving door (an extract)
1
How many
years down the drain?
She’s on a roll
now, a roller coaster
All her past
clawing its way up the slope
Ratchet by
fucking ratchet
The disappointment
the bitterness the loss of hope to
Launch itself
into the present
She’s giddy with
it nauseous
The push the rush
the gush
Does it work
like that?
To “do the right
thing”
But to do it so
badly
Held to account
for unhappiness
Yours and mine
Monday
Sisyphus is
looking forward to the weekend
a moment where
the rock jolts and jumps
bounces gets the rooks in flight bends
the air running
to a stop looks back
and then he
smiles and takes his
time as he walks
back down
the indifferent sunlight
dying slanting
golden
on the trees
clouds
flame burnishing
the air pungent
smoke of the
neighbour’s
barbecue
drifting
towards
Monday
Gift
Medea takes the lift
each floor a new betrayal
love’s knife sharp truth
across the throat
until there’s no one left
no one getting in no one getting out
no more hearts for sale
and now the doors won’t open
a lid on a box that is forbidden
and then the light goes out
so there are no walls no ceiling
only a floor she cannot trust
she might be rising she might be falling
she just might have disappeared
she puts a hand to her face
touches skin with skin
understands the weight of faith giving in
She’s Psyche perched upon the spire
waiting for the marriage beast
in the darkness for her husband’s breath
for Persephone’s beauty played upon a lyre
and she’s lost all hope of Pandora’s gift
she’s alone dissolving and becoming myth
she leaps upon the pyre
the fallen
on the smooth surface
of the Icarian
Sea
a fisherman hauls
in his net
and shudders to
find yet again
waxy feathers and
fragile bones
swimming with the
muscular
flesh of still
living fish
writhing and
squirming the frantic
mouths the
would-be screaming
the water greasy
with fear …
above, a sky clear
and blue
holding a sun
the light a whorl
all radiant with
innocence
blinding the
world askew
and deep down in
the turbid depths
of a black sea
floor the bottom feeders
are picking
clean the gleaming
remains of a fallen
star that at least once flew
that, at least
once, flew
the fall
Nike hesitates to cross the street
her hand held out in mid-air
just above ground zero
as if to stop traffic
tanks rumble past
the ground trembles
her wings coated in ash
she resembles a statue to an old hero
she cannot compare
her ears fill with static
a laurel wreath in tatters at her feet
Ares with no regrets
is smoking a cigarette
and leaning against a lamppost
on the other side of defeat
Bound
As the sun
slowly heals the night burns bright
Prometheus can
see far across the valley
can read the
smoke drifting dispersing
almost smell the singed fat and bone
watch the
figures in the landscape
ploughing building
toiling
note the shadows
of birds
skimming the
fields
a dove an eagle
umbrae of an
approaching
vulture
…
Click here for Prometheus link
Trojan Horses
He took her for
a ride,
a ride across deserts
and seas.
She took him in,
into her head, into
her heart’s disease.
Simple machines
Let us imagine the machinery
the cogs the ratchets the pawls
laid out on the floor
then being meticulously assembled
and oiled the gauge calibrated …
Could Icarus take flight?
Forging the sky the weight of myth
the blue the white the colossal clouds
soft-limbed and below
the sea muscular sculpted
immense and breathing pulsing
against an iron-rimmed horizon …
Simple machines a lever a wedge
a bit of pushing and pulling
another turn of the screw
a tightening a loosening
a wheel within a wheel
an inclination
the Minotaur in the labyrinth
running scared hungry
running into walls
gone off the rails
another child on the loose
lost
What of the end, Pandora?
Pandora returns
to the kitchen late one night
unsure of what
has brought her there
perhaps some
troubled dream
that still
haunts the 40-watt gloom
the lazy shadows
that line the walls like maps
she leans on the
back of a high wooden chair
and surveys the
room the unwashed dishes
littering the
table piled in the sink
the toys strewn
across the floor
a naked doll in
a shoe box
the fruit bowl a
study in decay
but beyond the
surfaces
and on a high
shelf at the back
behind a bottle
of Tesco’s whisky
is the jar the
lid still screwed in tight.
The next day,
sometime after two
in the garden on
the rickety table
she sets down an
apple the jar the bottle
and sits down
throwing off her shoes
she lies back
closes her eyes
can hear her
daughter singing the blues
as she climbs
the steps to the slide
she stretches
out her hand to catch at the …
and as her sleeve
rises up her arm
she sees the
tattoo just below her wrist
“Gods’ Gift” her
fingers pause …
Halfway through
the whiskey the apple gone to core
she picks up the
jar and puts it to her ear
wonders if it
will purr like Schrödinger’s cat
she hears the
beat of wings things borne
all that is left
when all else escapes
takes flight
flees a prisoner all but released
the dregs the
lees there’s so little air to breathe …
What of the
end?
She wipes the
earth from her hands
but the dirt has
been ingrained
she rubs at a
spot but it won’t come out
the stain the
prophecy the reading of the banns
the spreading of
the pall
will these
hands never be clean?
She empties the
last of the whisky
over the grave
and as the rain
begins to fall
she calls her daughter
from a game
all too human
considers the
torment of hope
Check out the following links
http://mural.uv.es/spricas/pandora.html
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Schr%C3%B6dinger%27s_cat
