.Per me si va tra la Perduta Gente
Though we heard His scuffing, scraping hooves on soil
and saw breath steaming from His wide ballooning nose
we thought Him just show, a purple, painted, pot.
We built the Fresco’s.
We gave up our children to ceremony.
We settled in caves hallucinated and invoked the altered light of the serpent goddess,
for we were glad of bread and wine.
When the great booming bull bumped and thundered deep below
we were spared by the grinning matriarch gripping fearlessly His writhing tail.
We were grateful for technology, for pastime.
He gave us a pure, gleaming, ivory furred image from the bowels of his ocean.
He said “Boast possession but kill the idol, or die”.
So we let him graze and killed the moon.
Wrath is the dragon death blowing fire,
wrath comes from below mantle and crust,
wrath is kindled by expectation exposed in the fields
as the sun ripens on the Earth
trampling the freshly grown crops as ocean surge hugs the coastline into its belly.
The temples besmirched, villages emptied.
We could see all along that strange doom eating our children
in the intestinal wriggling of the labyrinth.
We could sense Pasiphae crying, though her wine stained teeth glittered.
We smashed her little bronze god for we baked our temples
and on the vitrified floor allowed our oppressors
vain-glory preening, pouting, pontificating
as they studied their image through endless mythologizing.
The herd gathers for stampede,
slight rumbles are hoar frost telling of winter.
Taurus may belch up rivers of ice and our enemy may swarm
but forget not the paintings, the pottery,
the gentle touch of sun on eaves,
the long winding away of sight and sound in the basking of ease at the end of labour,
the excited thrust of belief in discovery,
the initial motion to kiss.
Forget not we were bronzed , beautiful, civilized,
the mountains, seas; sharp, deadly,
Theseus and his captains, pitiless.
The alabaster oracle grazing in our paddock has eaten all the grass.
Minos, Minos, wilt not,
Theseus has won a mere desert for his children.
Theseus and the Captains of Operation Freedom
Into the blubber and flesh I hewed
hacking human from horn.
The sack, filled round, I held high.
Blood splashed on marble tile
as hoards of my captains spilled
into Crete singing for glory
Oh Freedom, we have freed
The noxious beast in his greed
Great Theseus, the deed is done
The tide is turned, the battle won
The secret pall kept deathly cored
at the heart of complex halls
had monstrous head.
It gored and thrust as buffallo must.
I leapt, for choice, and kept hold of bone
mine eye to Orac’s own.
That horny head back tossed,
my legs crossed o’er my back
to turn intact across the heaving hide
of this evil infanticide,
landing fresco formed, sword raised
behind its upturned tail, crazed.
The sun upon my metal blazed.
In amazed cries I praised
Oh freedom, we have freed
The noxious beast in his greed
Minos so your hubris done
The monster dead, the battle won
Europa carried by the will
of divine discord
did install her son, but he
upon a whitened throne relapsed
when offering, his will collapsed
the pure white Moby he collected
his disease reflected
and Pasiphae her will deceived
in Poseidon’s rageful creed.
He who topples kings and empires with
his noble seismic whip,
thus spake my starry thruster,
for whom ever knew Pasiphae would never trust her progeny.
Even she in death wailed
Oh freedom, we have freed
The Minatorian super seed
Instincts do what instinct’s done
For choice, we kill; the battle’s won
As long as I am here
I might tell you the way back
along the dread-time road
for I do not do, daddy what you would.
You must not pass along the true pass
but hide inside.
Nor speak openly of trust,
nor ask what I would ask for you.
Speak to those you meet within, with my voice,
for I will say what they must hear
though they may not hear
what has been said by you.
I am the dark intermittent dawn
that knives the shallow flesh of peace
without being seen,
cries woefully at the gates
for all that has been lost
once they are down.
You shook and held my trembling hands
in pre-battle sweat.
You held my trembling hands.
Softly, you said, softly,
I will steal your father’s throne
and kill your mother’s seed,
and I let you in the gates
as easily as sun might steal
between the curtains of a lover’s tryst
so you could tap the heads of children and
banter out polemic
whilst your attention spanned
the vast corridors of my Polis for the secret door,
scanning my eyes for my heart’s revealing.
At the locked passageway
I would look an accused woman.
“Was it you”, my people would say,
“was it you that led the enemy
Through to Guernica?
For we have seen the limbs
of our children strewn
like a raven pecked carcass”.
I am not the re-known accuser
but my father’s cow-eyed darling
amongst your pyramids of torture,
the flesh of my family,
for I could always see
the way back.
I am the half-intoned allegory.
I am the unravelling flaxen thread
that built the dungeons of the mind,
and I leadeth you through
the valleys of death
to the mountains of serenity.
I am the yarn spoken briefly,
loosely, longingly, remembered anciently.
Twisted sinews of skinless muscle
around bones in the desert
stripped clean by pen craft
to lineament and rhythm.
I am the spinning web spun wild by Clotho’s hand,
the master at the threshing pool.
My master’s wishes sport my gifts,
poetry or bestiality,
nobility or disdainfulness, reckless or fruitful,
cherry blossom or yew.
Who brought the message to Mycenaean lips
that Minoan culture must die?
Who told the stories of Theses
and gave Ariadne her imaginal tongue?
Who made the wooden box that hid Pasiphae
or told the Trojans ‘the gift is good’?
Who now stands tall on Pentagonal grounds
on another box selling proliferate stories round,
lets the Gods decide they’re well or sick,
according to their will,
builds what needs be built and accepts his payment then?
I am constructor not of truth but labour for a coming day.
I lead you all through the valleys of the shadow and suffer no fear
for meaning must by nature change when nature change her meaning.
I am the spool spun for weak and strong,
protect the gentle people till time moves on,
lead the butchers to the glorious throne,
stand erect and note the fearful throng,
emancipate, escape the battle of moon and sun,
die with the rest, when my time is done.
The Minoan Elder
Children, we are lost.
The gentle headed bull tossed
out of our gates, along with us,
by great Theseus, the invader’s cuss.
We are fragments of hide so scrapped
by his avenging sword, entrapped
against our temple pillar
as this vicious preconceptive killer
lopped the pride of Pasiphae to carve
bull from woman, our culture halved.
Yet not halved, for no human hand
Would do this to our land,
and children, in our timeless woe,
our council of equals blood did flow.
Debate and common marketry
butchered by idolatry.
The victor raises now his pitcher
to Poseidon with enchaining stricture,
hails their kings who now lie on us
and sayeth Pasiphae were ruled by Minos.
Great woman, wonton sceptre,
keep her pure from this common klepter.
Dear children, dearest future,
your mother’s dead, your fathers loot you.
Where among her broken horns
are the olives, milk and wild acorns?