Pandora's Box

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.