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03-13-08, 10:05 PM
Woman To The Gods

To this woman of the Gods,
let me have a bone to pick with you -
white and smooth
and curved.
And if I am indeed crafted
from something so simple,
is it no wonder
i apologise so much?

For all is my fault,
as Troy falls,
and other countless
dreary tales of woe and blame
fan me with their turning pages.

And yet what do I have left
with which to heal the earth?
Inner peace groups
who burn cheap incense
and wave crystals at me
with earnest stupidity.

‘Heal thyself
and heal thy world,
Oh Woman, Mother, Inner Goddess blah, blah, blah‘.
Well, i was never that stupid.
No Goddess ever suffered such fools.
No Goddess ever suffered you.
And this dolphin music is driving me to distraction.

And you, with your fire and brimstone,
your pestilence and pillars of salt.
And least you were in a position
to get people’s attention.
(They’re still talking about it.)

You had no need for your fiery chariots
and voices of thunder.
You should have given them to me.

03-18-08, 09:15 AM

The man stirs,
lights a Holiday cigarette.

Holiday. God she needs
just to lie in the sand,
to forget,
while the edge of the ocean
kisses her toes.

Yes, she has a whole boxful of fantasies
hidden in her minds attic.
They tug at her
like vain, painful sprites.
(Open us, open us!)

Trains travelling through thunderstorms,
sheets warm from bodies.

But clouds of smoke
overlapping her dreaming,
as her nails slide down his back
and his warm, damp skin.

He wants to leave.
She hopes she’s learnt,
not to sink so low, so fast,
as she watches him go.

His cigarettes are left
and she lights one in the darkness,
a small, brief flame,
suitably harnessed.
Her skin is cooling,
her hopes are dying.

She thinks of one
who would appear
at her side.
‘I’ll stay,’ he’ll say,
and holds her gently,
loves her wholly,
and promises her