Tag Archives: Mythomyopeia

Hera at the British Museum

They know me now, the Security Guards,

nodding faint acknowledgement that the

crackpot is back, the dapper old lady with a

screw loose, blinking her bovine eyes before

blanking them and heading for the pathetic

shards of my life enamoured with glass.

 

They think I am a bag-lady without bags,

except that exquisite Chanel clutch. Did I

steal it? they wonder, but I shan’t tell them

how many such guilt-gifts I’ve had from a

husband who has fucked everything

including my life.

 

There is rarely anyone there to see my

family album in red and black:

nothing like us of course, as though we had

all turned away when a photo was taken, or

been blurred or photo-shopped,

and I am always such a frump!

 

Was I ever young? Or did you

birth me as a mother? Was there

something before? Heat and dust, the

sense of a jolting cart and the

heart-stopping feeling of having

once been wooden.

 

For in these shards, these

fiches of the forever gone, there are no

Baby Photos, nothing before the

Bridal Bed, no blood or

breach of birth, no sore gummed breasts,

milk sopping wet whilst a demanding

God invaded my dry vagina, no nothing of

what I always, forever, was.

 

 

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Athena on Old Street

My wisdom was always twisted

like a worm in the earth or the way

birds convoluted in the air, with

words scarce since they

teemed with hidden meanings

only I understood.

 

There is an owl imprinted on my

coffee cup at this

impressive data start-up where

all these kids think themselves

head-born but really don’t know

shit from Schenectady.

 

These places are all like

steamy kitchens with a sorry

lack of sieves, so they will pay

top dollar for my wisdom not knowing it

lies all about them,

free but unclaimed.

 

Thames bristles,

chill breeze at my back:

beset by algorithms,

I should come back as code.

Eris/Eros

It’s my palette, you know—
night-wet streets, neon cycling
red, white, red, blood
black as cola—but rather spoilt by the
blue flashes of the rozzers,
sharper than usual, so I sigh,
slide off through the throng, the
thrill making my thong chafe.

It’s so easy setting strife in Soho,
just like Athens or Aulis,
Mycenae or Melos, but with
mobile phones, forever filming me as the
boys do the knife dance (my favourite),
the girls scream so charmingly and the
photographers find their frames
funnily empty where I should be.

I shimmy across Piccadilly Circus,
glancing at that grotesque statue:
Eros? His tedious brother, more like!
Unselfish Love? Boring Fuck. No,
Eros is elsewhere, down-river:
I can smell the burnt air from his
missiles and miss his
chubby insolence.

Haymarket is quiet, the theatres dark, but the
beacon on Parliament burns bright,
division bells are ringing in
pubs and restaurants: the
hunt is up and I can sense that
sweet slut dogging me,
drawn to the easy meat of
lonely men and lonely women.

Bells still, the beacon extinguished and a
pallet of Parliamentarians spews out: those
shivering about a spot of blood
are mine, whilst those
turgid or wet are welcome to my
coy friend winking at me from the
shadow of the gateway, already
speed-dialling the tabloids.

No time to trans-shape, but the
low-cut top and the ultra
short skirt will do—a bit
jail-bait, but when has that
ever been a problem?
It’s easier if they think the
body of a goddess has the
mind of a child.

I remember the Melians
arguing with dry throats; the
Trojan women wondering if their walls were
high enough for suicide; the
Athenians cooped in that quarry in
Syracuse, starving—it’s so
erotic hearing people beg when
beggings of no use.

At dawn, palate sated, we meet and
dance down deserted Westminster Bridge,
love and hate in that
eternal erotic clinch,
Eros pinching my bum as I
slap and laugh and twirl,
loving London so empty of
everything but possibilities.

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