ELEKTRA

ELEKTRA

 Is expressionist sunlight on the grave’s slanted mirror.
Has become a complete index of numerous lies
Myths, trembling sensuous poetical dreams
Lank hair torn at its roots, hair is braided, tied back
Arms, legs, torso tangled together and the knowledge
Is somehow impaled on the rich white light
Of the moon’s succumbing glories, tenuous like egg white,
Orange rind, wasted purposes, antinomies.
Elektra is dust in her Sophoclean splendour
She mouths the word sister, sister, sister.

SALOME

Has been bitchslapped, wants to fuck the lifeless torso
Of John someone, who, let’s face it, is getting what
He deserves. Dance Salome until rosy glowing light
Fills your breasts, caresses your moist cunt.
Then the head of John is conceived, delivered
Into the hands of political Herods who know
That blood, blood, blood drips and drips
Down your ass, legs, splendidly petit breasts.
Your dancing ecstatically because John is dead.
The evil fucking woman hating liar is dead.

WHITE FLOWERS

 Are pushing up corpses, are not all they seem.
Are perfected, part of my senses, eyes
Earliest memories. Are clogging up the diaphane
Are one way into perception.
Perception Is everything, not as we see it, but as
The white flowers tremble against
The wall of ferns, primeval forests
Ancient one lunged amoeba
Or scuttling ancestral insects.
I am evolving now into another dimension or feeling of poetry, of sound, colours hitting my retina. implication of velvet black night at my beginning and ending.

SEVEN DAYS

Are not enough. Rain grey clouds vapid Across the unkempt sky cry for a place In the sun, announce a singular destiny Or at least a dying afternoon. Dreams flay The skin of realist preachers of death and hate. The juice of rich berries Soak the blood of Orpheus whose death In moonlight is rich as figs, bitter, bitter As lemons that hang on the prick of Pluto In his Plutonic gloom. In the darkness Psychopomp, lover are now one: Bitter, bitten lemons sucked to perfection. Veronica Vaas