Poetry

Aristeia

by on Apr 1, 2014 in Poetry | 0 comments

Zeus with the migraine that was Athene smashed his skull open on his stepson’s maul, split free a tall spear of a girl as unbreachable as logic and beguiling as a myth while the lag–footed blacksmith glanced down at his burnt hands and faded underground again. A god who crashes once to earth buries himself within it, forge–roaring Etna and the tindery fields of Claudius’ Ostia hammering out the shape of fires to come, lyre–lit Rome, the charred olives of Athens and the armor that saved Achilles as surely as a poem turns aside a bomb. Get out of my head, older artificer, take axe and tongs if you have to, you cannot break this grip of pain on me. I will smelt it...

Read More

Tell Me the World is a Forest

by on Apr 1, 2014 in Poetry | 0 comments

Tell me in the forest there are mushrooms and typewriters. Tell me mushrooms taste good and typewriters never rust. Tell me how typewriters spawn like fireflies at lunar eclipse, how they      settle down like ash among mushrooms and moss. Tell me you’ll show me. Tell me there’s a temple where girls go to cut themselves — and once      a century the bloodflower blooms. Tell me you picked it. Tell me you ran through the forest. Tell me what chased you. Tell me you climbed. Tell me you slept in wet branches. Tell me you woke in the night, looked down in the moonlight, saw      a wild man...

Read More

Unlabelled Core c. Zanclean (5.33 Ma)

by on Apr 1, 2014 in Poetry | 0 comments

I am the anchor to every oracle. Rock records all replies, endlessly overwritten. Chip–voiced, lies layered as gypsum dust over tones that cut like calcite. Incisive; dug kilometres deep into the desiccated rift, Nile and Rhone remember ripples at their deltas. Whispers in the time before myth, echoing on eye–searing white across an endless cauldron. Gibraltar’s gates opened into the heart of the ocean. Well below all sunk ships left lyre–boned for the flashing rhythms of fish, the gentle shores, swallowed ten metres a day, shelve to the sill of Sicily, beset by questions: asking after the mood of drowned sagebrush, slipped under the windwoven waves, silent...

Read More

Cogs

by on Apr 1, 2014 in Poetry | 0 comments

each morning she awoke as a cog within a vast machine around her relentless clicks like a thousand flurried crickets she closed her eyes and knew the length of each stitch exactly when to pivot the cloth the perfect rhythm of foot on pedal she measured each day by shirts by how the white pile grew the wooden seat cupped her hips like a tree growing around a stone it only made sense when they grafted needles to her fingertips when her shoes melded to the pedal when her lips craved the taste of oil instead of thinned coffee when her unneeded eyes were plucked out preserved in a tin beneath her bed and her fingers and feet never lost rhythm Beth Cato’s debut steampunk...

Read More

The Parable of the Supervillain

by on Mar 4, 2014 in Poetry | 1 comment

Don’t think I didn’t watch the news, sister of mine, in those days. Don’t think I didn’t see you in that mountaintop palace strewn with blood–red bones, the mosasaur moat, the horned, hooved footmen. At four in the morning with the baby biting me, I watched you call the President of Australia from his velvet bed and feed him to the army ants. You were never satisfied. Money, sex, guns, velociraptors: Mother only wanted your voice on the phone. You wanted the world. Evil, they said. Pray for her soul, they said, for her to step down meekly right this instant and join some convent, or die. But I clung to the television not knowing what I felt, at...

Read More

Tempus

by on Mar 4, 2014 in Poetry | 1 comment

He made time from spinning seconds collected from door jambs where passersby would pause, lost in transition shedding tufts of unheard ticking and occasional moments of pure grace he stood askew from busyness and breathed it loose gently drawing out forgotten strands to ply back into the whole and as his fingers worked his mind wound back to lazy Sunday reunions at the foot of Mt. Olympus where family was as oft monster as divine and aunt Clotho sat him down for lessons with a nod let other men swing swords in clumsy imitation of her sister’s shears his needles knitted time into what was needed most a day longer to say goodbye, a heartbeat more for judgment and his...

Read More