When Prometheus stole fire from the gods,
I know he placed some in your eyes
Eyes that are piercing,
fiery, 
ardent, 
and melting away:
the worries in my heart,
the thoughts in my head,
the fears embedded in me.
Eyes that pierced through the windows of my soul
Now, I am cut open.
With one gaze, 
one touch   —
a touch deeper than skin.
Ah! My defences are down,
Ah! My lover,
You have touched me, 
closely,
intimately, 
beautifully.
This intensity can feel your fire 
We are only human,
but together   —  you and I
We can be gods!

in all of my life
of not taking advice
i shot at the stars
and they all fell down

as good intentioned was i,
in the blink of an eye,
the gods were all silent
as they all hit the ground

an honest mistake
i distinguished too late
for the seas were ablaze
and in the ashes i drowned

now i wander the skies
ignited for all of time
until the cycle repeats
for a new Earth i found

You are my first line
I am Echo
And I know what it is to be
Addicted
To a voice I’ve never heard
As I recite your words in my head
I wonder how it is
If I don’t know you
That I know that you wish
You’d never been in love.

I would be your knight
If you’d just
Put down
Your sword
But armour is like skin
Worn long enough
And peeled away
There are only bones underneath
I would never force you to be raw
To satisfy my hero complex.

The distance between us is a single breath
And you surround me
Like breathing
For you and I
We thrive in echoes
And meditate
On scars
But I will not cut you
Just to know
I am eternally written on your skin
For you talk in ink
And I am only tapestry
Fearful
Of being undone.

First, Mother Nature met Diana.

Mother nature, autonomous woman
Place the elixir of life onto my tongue,
Three drops, put your mouth above mine
Let your saliva drip in
Touching the roof of my mouth.

I’ll now tilt my head back,
Choking as it runs down my throat,
A beautiful agony, as always
Into my body,
Down to my stomach,
The tonic of life,
Our life.
Now we shall create.
Amen.

Second of all, with fountains of love, they created a child. They went on to call her Rosina.

let your bees come in,
pollinating, creating life
but only under my terms,
only when i choose
to let them feast upon me

let a small peach form
on the branches of my womb
but let her core be poisonous
hydrogen cyanide,
to keep thieves at bay

if my body is a garden,
let it be ripe,
ever growing, ever flowering
a stretch of soft grass,
for us to lay our heads

mother, mother, daughter
the heavens will sing.

The stretch marks on my thighs prove that I am a descendant of the mermaids and the gods.

They shine and appear light on my skin like how the sunlight dances on the top of the water.

They are signs that my body has endured and will continue to survive as the world moves on.

They weave across my skin like the beginning of a beautiful tapestry that will only become complete in time.

Learning to love myself again is hard, but my naked body is slowly becoming mine again.

The stretch marks are art on my skin, my own natural tattoos.

Let them show.

[In which Aphrodite ponders monogamy, 21st century style]


She’d come far since that whole Botticelli scandal,

astride a shell, hair tumbled about her ******,  

sensuality and a taste for illicit thrill (a real wild myth)

but now the candid canvas only required a google by the Book Club’s prying judgment,

she’d since traded Olympus for a semi-detached.  


All his shirts were folded, perfectly pressed,

ham and chips congealing by the microwave  

and he should have been back before Hollyoaks.  

They met in their local, he bought her a pint and mused

over Milton of all people, his degree finally put to use,

justifying the ways of God to men.  

Impressed and tipsy his back was soon against the wall, no tricks needed.  


He kissed all over her divinity,  

admired the quote encircling her ankle, from a trip round Asia

to find herself, at age nine thousand and nineteen.  

As they made love a spell fell on her for once in a millennia

Married in months, too young, well he was,  

and her face had always been twenty-two.  

Then came the mortgage, the Labrador, the kids, the affairs.  


At the bottom of a wine glass she pondered on the irony

after all what was the point of an eternity weaving passion into the world  

with your husband’s ‘lunch meetings’ equating to rolls on Travelodge sheets?

Not her style at all, too tacky.  

She could work her charms, make everything rose-tinted,  

but the bitterness intoxicated.


On the sofa, her side, she dwelled again on Botticelli,  

spilling her beauty on a page,

passion and dexterity, a lost breed- this century was so unpromising.  

Aphrodite thought on her conquests- Ares, Poseidon, Adonis

gods between her thighs, making her mountains move,  

oceans boiling madly, bruised skies crackling with fire,  

tangled bedsheets,  

hair,

hands caressing skin and creating worlds, and…


…and on her mortal, a balding, a boring, a bland  

disappointment.


Off came the clothes, the wedding ring and the phone from its hook.  


Imagine the pizza boy’s confusion as the door opened to the sound of the heavens singing  

rays of ethereal light warming his pubescent, pock-scarred face.  

A naked, pearly goddess,

and those golden, flaxen locks snaking, seducing, ensnaring as he staggered into the rosy blur.


It was impossible, after all, to justify the ways of gods to men.  


But how clichéd.

Should we head onwards towards our future?
Make the best of what we've got.

Or set our sights on new beginnings,
And face the ragnarok.