Ixion

Even the sky has its hobbies —Dora Malech

In the quarry pit they strap him, lift 

his gibbet-disc. The crowd jeers, waving rags and wood, 

their blow-up centaurs, Cloud fucker! placards. 

Thoughts scroll the dark parish of his skull, 

a sky mottled with Furies, the sweet hiss from coals. 

His muscles grin beneath their ropes.

As directed, his bones snap in the bleak 

fire. A twisted puppet, he hugs himself.

Men come to reset the rig.

The days burn and spin, they weaken nothing.

No god could match her soft nimbus,

the pubic weather where he dipped his prick.

Justice then, for such perfection, to wake 

and find the world unchanged.

Daniel Fraser