There once was a daughter of the sea god.
She was young and brave but lived with her squad.
The seven halfbloods had set on a journey.
Defeat mother nature and her tourney.
With arrows flying and blood spilling.
Everything in her mind was unwilling.
But the brave daughter took a risk,
At the end it was one hectic brisk.
hand around stomach, she thinks
(this cannot be right) the way
his hands feel like they are burning
holes in precious porcelain skin she
promised she would save, maybe to
never give away. the way her fingers
begin to web and her mind goes
fuzzy and he’s still reaching
for her, all bone-finger and
finger- bone. maybe this
is what it feels like to
grow into the ground.
feet slide into fertile
mud (slides up her
legs past veiny thigh
purple lines trekking
below soft skin)
Poseidon wants us to drown in our water,
zEus wants us to overload our fuse box,
arEs wants us to sexualize our nuclear weapons on our ground,
herMes wants us to fall for faults of our minds,
promEtheus stood up and was sentenced to an eternity of a not so passive aggressive raven (or maybe an emo-tional eagle) whom would not quote "nevermind".
sisypHus suffered a similar fate until camus said, "be blind to reasons why and just enjoy a meaningless life."
"where's the gods of tits and wine?"
wouldn't that be fine.
a weird little poem i worked on today.
With heartbreak and loss...
does the Divine hear our thoughts?
On hands and knees,
wind cascades hair, face,
I cry out a hoary breath,
sobbing a tender freeze.
Painful sheering burn of ice upon my forearms...
to die is a warmth here.
He lands and screeches,
talon'd feet below swaddling
of wispy bandages
knees bent in reverse,
awkward pose over me
I look up and see.
Creature of arms and wings, bandied, banded...
eyes black, large, -peering.
It knows my pain.
Here to deliver me,
away from the world
I can no longer exist.
I lean back, haunches,
expiate my yeornful heart.
Torn out, beating yet in pain no more?
I am leaving with his messenger.
To the Van..
..yes you are so interesting or threatening to the government that they feel compelled to watch you all day, every day, constantly and a tech company is aiding them in violating a core principle of freedom; the right to privacy.
A tech company is complicit in a tyranny against freedom and individuality while selling you knowledge?
I hope Trump finds the courage to start hanging traitors.
There is no such a thing as freedom.
There is no such thing as capitalism.
America is a myth.
Nobody gets purposely lost in a Labyrinth, and no one ever enters one on their own volition. The infinite search for a door or passageway can be exhausting, and there are no blueprints of the place framed on the walls, or exit signs shining intermittently on top of doorways or the end of hallways.
No matter how much time you spend wandering confusedly around the inescapable, intricate compounds, you never think of it as a home. Even as the moon sets and the sun rises each day, even as you recognize the path you’re in, or even as you’re lost in Crete, or in time, or in a dimension unknown, you feel the void envelop you and become the ground, the walls, the air, the sky, the very sun rays or moonlight that shine down from it, the very raindrops that fall from the clouds, the very cold air that brushes your skin, the celestial satellites that orbit the Earth (artificial or natural), or the inclement or serene weather as you stand naked at the mercy of the elements.
The Labyrinth is not even a vacation spot in your mind. You’re not swimming somewhere with the dolphins; you’re not laying on the sand taking a tan in the Bahamas or some beach in the Caribbean. You might think of the Labyrinth as the DMV or your dead-end job, and that it looks exactly like the office floor plan where your desk is located (wherever that may be), or that it feels like your current romantic relationship. Your Labyrinth might be a person, for all I know; someone you’ve lost yourself in and that you can’t find your way out of. Your Labyrinth might even be your own personal heaven or hell, depending on how you see it, or on how much you loathe or enjoy it.
Whether you’re Daedalus, Icarus, Ariadne, Theseus, or the Minotaur; whether you’re the architect of such a convoluted structure, the half-animal, half-human chimera trapped in it, or the sacrificial victim unwillingly thrown in it, by instinct, when you find yourself lost in a never-ending maze, you simply stop believing in the punishment –or praying for the mercy– of the Gods, and seek the freedom you desire. You start building wings that hopefully won’t melt when you get too close to the sun, to flee and fly away far from whatever or whoever trapped you.
You can either build wings to escape, like Daedalus did, or follow Ariadne’s thread, like Theseus, trying to hold on to that fragile string with one hand, while holding a mighty, deadly sword in the other.
Here I sit in Greek Lit. clas;
The lecture's very dull.
This Greek ythology will neer
Sink into my skull.
Of Agamemnon is the talk,
And good Odysseus too,
That things that Clytemnestra did
Should really make me blue.
But somehow I just cannot seem
To get lost in this plot.
I just won't try to stay awake,
That's asking such a lot.
Tremble and hail at Cthulhu's call
Who is Cthulhu?
the Ancient One, A Dark God
first recorded by H.P Lovecraft
once long ago
Now, Cthulhu has several followers
few at first but rapidly on the rise
Cthulhu is very real and soon will be revealed
He's in deep slumber
Way below in R'lyeh
far under the sea
If ever he shall awaken
The whole world will be shaken
All humanity will be lost
Only a whisper of a spell
From the Necronomican
Can seal him back to his tomb
Beware for when the stars align, R'lyeh will suddenly appear
and Cthulhu will revive his subjects
To rule this Earth once more
Cthulhu, the powerful, ancient, and he who knows all
Come and heed his call
He speaks telepathy to those who will listen
Come, Cthulhu, your child awaits
To hear your voice and spread your message
To those who don't believe
woman waltzes into the metro station
shiny grey hair pursed lips &
book pressed under her armpit
i pause and think—
looks greek no turkish no greek
no the book
how do you know
ugly bust of stesichorus on the outer flap
ancient lyric poet one of the first i think
would someone read stesichorus in this day and age
what kind of woman
the kind of woman who downs
martini martini then
ichor blood of the gods
in one big gulp
all three sifting down her throat
crushed ice at the bottom of each glass
the kind of woman
with hands like a harpy
with eyes like a siren
twenty greek scholars
parceled into her cranium
under shiny grey hair
yes that kind of woman
Avert your eyes
from looking directly
at the monster.
Look only through
that reflective shield,
that glowing rectangle
that parades a
distorted vision of
the objective self,
that which in
dark moments may
suddenly shut off,
revealing one’s face:
inverted, expressionless, petrified—
like when the
mirror of Perseus
at last revealed
Medusa’s horrifying visage.