Monday, 13 December 2010

Zeus's Sixty Sixth Affair

Cold glass clinks together,
grown fat with red wine and--
hands intertwine in the night
of a suburban morning.

The music and dance, chosen specifically to
endanger, and to mourn their passion is
followed by moonlight binoculars--
the wife watches from across

the barren road, unwatched like
Medusa in the shadows of a car.
She drinks a coffee; a stain upon
her white shirt. Hate bellows.

Deep breath--a kitchen knife in the
back seat. The house is silent--
wraiths writhing in the dark;
fumbling, squirming.

The wife is at the door and she
rings the bell. The wraiths
turn to stone.

Blind Man's Beach

I can see,
                what you see is a shoreline:
washed up old bottles and
golden copper clams blubbling
up from the mints deep below.

You can hear the wind,
                                     hooting its bagpipe choir,
swooping over with the seagulls.
A fleet of sunbeaked scavengers,
scourging the skies.

Their bodies:
                     Cannonfire launched into the sea;
their bayonet beaks
spearing colourless fish until
their fins are shredded dust.

Gasping for breath on the beach:
bulbous eyes bulging,
a lame dance of mercy,
                                    the prey dies.

I can tell,
               what you see is a shoreline,
A grey beach. A grave.