CORRECTION
correction, you
were
a political animal
but
something happened
are one
no longer
which is
for the best, perhaps,
since
it marks in you, in
all of us
a decline from
our old
humanity
less
like a tragedy
more just atrophy
put simply,
this is all I have left
to say on this score
OR CONVERSELY, IF HOMER HAD
WRITTEN DONALD TRUMP
Sorry to say,
your text, though
possibly exceeding all
expectations
could not ascend to
the the whiter than reality
of driven snow
let him
be insufferable, insist
on correction, extractions
with a sharpie
(thing he wields as if
Achilles’ great spear)
meanwhile the critics
seem majorly underwhelmed
by what
the script has
shown them
believe Aesop, Aristophanes
might have contrived
a more believable plot.
meanwhile the great sagas
of your contributions
at Troy
are filtering through,
crossing the seas
to spite
Poseidon
of your
great fraternal connection
and military alliance
with the Cyclops
Polyphemus
your insistence
that the horse of infiltration
be
aircraft-
carriet large
already whispers of
these epic
achievements
reaching
the ears of young Penelope
(in our
rendition old
enough to
be your daughter)
every day
down
at the harbour
here in Ithaca
dreaming of, longing for,
dreading
your return
making her sacrifices
to Aphrodite
has a (had to have a)
secret life she daren’t (under
any circumstances)
tell you about.
SINGULARITY
stand behind me
step
inside me
presto before what trails
across the page
becomes
more than
just mushy
along the edges
you
and your colliders
it is the dream to
quantify
every dark particle
prove
every hypothetical
to be wired
and grounded
but when
you speak their truth
you sound
so fabulous, not
making any
concrete sense
(terrify
that every new coinage
might sprout
a singularity)
PROXIMA
I am about to start crawling
to the nearest star
will be
a trillion years older than you
thanks to
time dilation
returning to a world
a Universe that no longer exists
out there in the whatever
orbiting forever
having
evolved to survive
the lack of everything
now
there is no human warmth
no human cold.
ICE AGE
need just a sprinkling
of tactical nukes
to restore
the balance
once in our favour
pop a
couple off
one,
two,
perhaps three:
instant, drive-through victory,
no fear of nuclear winter
those
being nuked
proving themselves rational
enough to keep
everything
within bounds
and yet
the spectre of this
alone
enough to get me
to freeze over
the blood in my body
every thought in my brain
frozen block solid
going
new Ice Age.
WITNESS
Got a Hail Mary
thrown
at me from the depths
of deep space
on a clearer trajectory than
Oumuamua or Atlas 3I
my fingers grown too fumbling
to ever again
play
wide receiver
contest-catch stuff from the stars
here in the red zone
as I might well
have before
steeling myself for the reception
of whatever terrible truth
I guess
hereby
singled out to bear human
witness too, unashamedly
share
before the opportunity
be lost
forever
to move
on that message
however
impossible the translation
despite
whatever be
broken
threaten
to get
knocked out of my hands
slip through my fingers
drop to
the floor
dash
any hope of repair.
ITINERARY
tell me
how far they lie apart,
as the crow flies,
these realms of
the profane and
those
sacred spaces?
Oracle
coracle
give me the satellite
photos so I might
travel Delos
to Stonehenge
plotting
my itinerary
and here I am now
in the establishing shot
you have figured for me
crossing those rolling plains
centuries before
time of the maximum
alert airbase
and tight
minutemen silos
suddenly, out of nowhere,
a great spine of mountains
upon which
the faces of Kings as
stolid as
chesspieces
(unless these are
the ones who swore
their blood oath
against royalty)
and we
who were, are,
as but dust to them
all soon
will
be gone, like gods,
like the
Great Spirit.
BY MORNING
they spent
the whole night
under the great
lychee tree
writing their poems
messages of
love
scrawled or
painted carefully
across their
bodies
by morning, a
body
of work
a collection
truly epochal
FEAST
the goddess
requested (well, yes,
being a goddess,
sort of
demanded)
a poem of me
and that I
render it to her,
furnish her with it
finding her there
beneath her sacred tree
that with her sharp, sharp
mind she might
pain-stakingly read
wrap it in
silk, satin
or velvet
keep under
her pillow, secretly feast
ARROW
was shooting arrows
picking my spot
missing everything
out
of inspiration
maybe need you
to act as
my target
strike
statuesque poses
but there again
your speed of thought,
your
blinding beauty
bound
to dazzle
spoil my aim
get me
to aim
too high, perhaps
too low
shooting arrows
tipped with love potion
threatening
your equilibrium with
potent
erotic poison
and yet
calling my bluff
with contempt so openly,
dare I say
nakedly?
you caught freeze-frame
striving to catch them
as they
whizz by
wonder where you might
keep it
if you managed to catch one
pluck it, so to speak,
from the sky
my best guess
telling me
in a silk-lined box somewhere,
casket
close to your heart
not to
rule out
heavy return fire
streaming in from your
redoubt
hit me
palpably and yet
just a
flesh wound
to get
full flavour possible to have
to stick it
in deeper, extremities
of joy and pain
as, desire
running rampant, I much
mortify myself
out in the open
no chance of lovely
assassin here
pulling back her bow-string, silent
in the forest
shooting
at small, small, dodgy
creatures
I warrant mostly
mammals
once hit a
goddess (bit of
spectacular misfortune)
she
returning fire, shooting
from the hip
hit me
fair and square with
that selfsame dart
and there
I fell
in her arms, mortally
struck, wounded forever
slain
by
Athena, Ishtar, Isis,
Aphrodite
perhaps Artemis herself
done in by a goddess,
best, worst
kind of death
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