I am all things Greek in
the uniqueness of my rage.
I am Medusa's head - tangled plaits
flapping in a non-existent breeze
as they wrap viper-like around your neck
and squeeze. Did I mention my eyes
can also freeze?
I am Zeus' Missus Hera - when thwarted,
best abort all plans. I stamp, I shout,
I throw things about, possibly
the most expensive items in the house.
I chew wood, spit it out,
lucky, lucky you, if my blood does
not shoot past it's boiling point,
Id hate to disappoint.
I've even driven my man to madness
- I'm that bad, and he that sad
- when I've finished my badassery
- believe me.
I am Circe if my partner upsets me
- I am that sorceress who
changes men to swine.
Mine is the wrath of all the Gods
of the Sea - see me, read, tsunami.
Iam Nyx Goddess of Anger,
the shadowy, shady lady of night
- if you do not do right by me.
I am worse than Chaos
- his tears are bathos beside me.
I am banshees wailing the doom
of those in or out of the rooms
I prey in - crying so shrilly the Moon
shivers and drops her head.
I am The Egyptian Book of the Dead
- translated - funerary text for
all who vex me.
Beware my frown.
Do not allow the red mist to come
down - for when day falls away
and night makes it's play
everything must drown.
By Elizabeth Uter