Helen's Champions
To combat all bacterial legions
she sprays her chemical warfare
down.
But where are her champions
in this Chaos of postmodernity
-
blood bright chieftains who could thwart
the watchdog at those wrought
iron bafflements
and reclaim her as their queen or goddess,
young men
and old, who once
would have given gold or more,
for less than the
minted brush of her breath,
and even in rejection, would protect
her
tainted honour with their death?
Only Ajax stands her ally now,
swathing through grime
he spins demented in the vortex
wherein her
passion chills.
Her kitchen coruscates in the empty morning,
her
wrinkling mirror image leers.
Whitegoods thrum their mockery
of her
caricature of beauty.
Could some new potion, cream or scalpel
repair
to alabaster brightness,
her jaded charms, and even then,
would that
restore the ardour of her champions?
Soon she'll spray her
weapons down
on crumpled sheets and underwear.
She's in control
with aerosol and a little covert gin,
but where are Helen's champions
now? Published in Famous Reporter, n.26,
2002, p.16.
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