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
LIGHTLY
dove flew
(24/7
at her beck and call)
down from
Olympus
quicksilver service of
his divine mistress
she needing
a word, more
than a word with her
misfiring genius
also
express delivery a vial
not of regular old absinthe but
crystal-precious ambrosia
not just
once but twice, thrice
carbon filtered and
scientifically
distilled
his eyes still smarting in recoil
from her last light show
before she decided
to conclude mutual proceedings
in standard mortal
Helen of Troy form
whatever and
whichever way to
be diced
she
not to be taken lightly
jazz of her in full worship glory
too much for
me to bear
poems 2 die for