The Myth of the Myth of Sisyphus

The lad reads Camus like Sisyphus,
every Penguin page so inclined
that the meaning might roll back
with a groan into cerebral rubble.
He says truth’s just a bigger boulder,
harder to shoulder, shape or throw,
gathering speed but no moss…

(moss)
which older men should mould
as a felten hat to cool their brains
or sport as a velveteen jacket to dine
in places with strict dress codes
so that they may complain about
the dreadful amount of piss
the ruling class leave on the loo seat…

(loo seat)
the last porcelain bastion of thought
on the digital plains of distraction
where cats battle it out with cakes,
side-boobs and Presidential candidates
all as sweaty and convicted as crusaders
waving their many pouted Selfies
like Madonnas…

(Madonna)
whose cult is overdue a comeback,
– Joseph’s wife, not Guy Ritchie’s –
to be venerated with roadside shrines
by bus stops, piled with stone cairns
showing how far our myths have come
since Sisyphus, Prometheus and
that fire the Gods still want back.

Shortlisted in the 2016 Live Canon Poetry Prize

Cargo

A boy slips through a break in the chain link
down to the creek where the silt unfolds,
recumbent, slick-skinned, more than ready
for its thick veined estuary to come home.
He picks across the flats with his school bag
trailing herring gulls and something eggy.

He’s collecting the pocks, flecks and shards
from this mud-welted margin of the past:
pot handles, a buckle, a marble eye,
coins faint with kings, queens and tridents,
a long white bone worn flute smooth,
a medal celebrating motherhood.

It’s all been lockered fast under his bed
which sails every night down the high street
along rivers planted with humankind
who branch up tattered as scarecrows
begging that you hear their history
before they wash to weeds on the waking tide.

He’s late for class because his feet have stuck
so he waits for the waters to free them
as dockyard cranes make equations in the sky.
A bright red container hangs from cables
dense with bar codes and fast machines
selling happiness, flat-packed from far away .

Commended in the 2016 Wild Atlantic Words Competition