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Pandora's BoX

Whom to blame?
What woman now walks, the lethal ancestress
Of the original ancestress, that one named 
Pandora, that one with the gleaming eyes that said:

   "I want; I need, to know?"

Where is she now, the new incarnation
Of the old dire mother of humanness,
That one that makes our eyes roll inside/out?

Three pints of beer and there's a city outside,
Slowly crowding itself to sleep, flicking out
Bit by bit, secretly, like the extinguishment of prayer candles.
This is enough for his loneliness stew, thinks the nightwatchman;
He sits in his chair with the night at his back;
The perfect time for sloth. 
He sits and sinks,
Nods and winks.
 
And dreams - oh yes, he dreams
Of barbershops and femme fatales:
In neon lust he floats and drifts
Soaked to his loins in orange-red thoughts
That hurt his eyes, he grunts and shifts.


   And that maiden stands somewhere far below,
   Below, down at the feet of buildings, and so
   She strolls the country lanes with a face
   For all events, with plaintive eyes

   That beg for pity. She is curious,
   So why should you reproach?
   After all, it's her reflection
   That burns your own eyes.

In the uttermost backseat of a stadium,
Packed to bursting with her rivals,
Their specters clapping, clapping for each others' victories
Smiles bright, he also claps hollowly, gritting his teeth, nursing his pain
He seeks no anodyne.
Envy's ambergris burns fiercely in his nostrils, he learns to love the pain,
The ash that is his brain.

The ash that then rises, like a phoenix from the flames
To dance wraithlike before him,
A ghost with eyes like coal
The shadow of himself, enraged - he sends him forth, a beast of fire,
Emissary to the night, to flog the city with his rage,
To flog it 'til it spins and reels, a crackling gyre.

The Maiden waits. She waits. For what?
She's looking at the stars and wondering
Where, oh where they've gotten to,
Those things she let out of the box.

Long, long ago they were part of her,
Though also still themselves, those things begotten
Of darkness, those things that bear the blame
Just for being, oh yes.

Far down in the very eye of the blaze,
A familiar figure, a two legged balloon comes rolling his mass along,
Rising towards the surface of the mirror at the end of the hall
Like some ungainly bubble one wishes would burst,
The glutton comes striding, leaving a trail of specialized sickness;
An empty life with empty dishes.

Then blowing in from the tiny window at mind's hind end
Come the sandpaperbacked dollars, little snips and slips of green
That sometimes rub away a conscience, that breed like caged flies
Within the soul of a man of avarice.
Unused, they're worthless, yet still lethal as a yeoman's pike.

All these evils and still more besides,
Flew from the box that curiosity opened.
Hope alone remained at the end,
And she a fair- tongued liar.
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