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
Mark Fiddes 