Thursday, 20 February 2014

Odysseus (I think its finished...for now...)

A Hot Night, Odysseus Stands Before A Window

The sound of a trumpet, the call of a bull elephant
moments before the fabled graveyard is reached
and a pair of ivory tusks are earthly surrendered
as tribute to the weight of overwhelming yesteryears.

The sound of a trumpet, the cry of a heart
in the lost desert of night; a heart squeezed
between two dawns, blown apart by the memories
of footsteps trod on other people’s lawns.

Odysseus visualizes the trumpeter’s thick lips
pursed with pain that craves to be shed,
cheeks inflated, two walls trying to protect;
a sound produced - seduces the spaces
between the disks of his spine as he stands naked
in the night’s ambiguous shrine – low lights,
the distant hum of wandering beasts, the cry
of an unwell child struggling with the heat.
It is an implausibly hot night, the air
a lair within his head to catch thoughts
that should have been put to bed.

The heat makes everything unreal.

Trapped before the window - a mast
in the city’s ocean of night - unable to flee
or fight; the trumpet’s sound creates him,
berates him, calls him home
and away again as it pries apart his mind.
He grows fearful he might forget the King
He had become – decides the epitaph
will choose his choices that cannot be undone;
the actions, thoughtless and destructive,
that litter the waves like the sun-glinting bones
of lost sailors searching for landfall.

The city’s colours melt, merge, are bent by sounds,
by smells, by memory; the stars swirl bright, attack
the dark, like the trumpet, shake his faith
as he stands in the front of the open window.

The belated breeze hounds, the bricks spit heat,
his mind treads old sentences, merges verbs
to nouns, imagines a thousand possible excuses
that are swallowed before the lie is set to flight.

She stirs behind him – he remembers
it was originally her smile, then the way her right
hand twirled her reddish hair; the blouse untied
and spread and the nipple not yet erect, kissed
and as he flared he forgot the promise
and surrendered to the call of the beast.

He had hoped it was a dream,
that his standing before the window,
his right hand idling touching his limp cock,
was not…

That the picture he had tried to paint
as his life…had become…

that the trumpet was soothing
not The Siren calling him out again.

Will he ever rid himself of the torment
of that mast? Must he always succumb?

Never be able to resist the echoes
that, like waves, forever call him…
take him further away from the kingdom,
the children and Penelope’s open arms?

When did he breathe so deep that he inhaled
the desert surrounding Troy and now Its sands

reside within his lumbering lungs?

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