Orestes' and Electra's Mum
was, in their view, the Higher Scum.
I loved my Mother and I tried
to feel less guilty, so I cried,
but in those dreams she willed me have
I dug around her missing grave -
now write that up, she said.
I do not write the way I am,
I rode on a storm when I sat in a tram,
my fears were highly rational
but only when I dreamed - The Fall
was daily life, the Workers' Wheel,
the tangled web we're told we weave,
the millions historied.
How do we scan the things we write?
Is this our fabled Second Sight,
the huge reflective Self interred
in generations of the Word?
I'd love to pose as Terrorist
or Trotsky under House Arrest,
but sadly I'm not mad.
Author
Picador |