Her soiled vest,
her little breasts
her clipped, devast-
ated, scabbed
punk head,
the char-eyed

famine gawk-
she looked
camp fucked

and simple.
people
could feel

a missed
trueness in them
focus,

a homecoming
in her dropped-wing
half-calculating

bewilderment.
no such thing
as innocent.

Old King Cock-
of-the-Walk
was back.

King Kill-
the-Child-
and-Take

What-Comes,
King Agamem-
non's drum-

balled, old buck's
stride wwas back.
and then her Greek

words came,
a lamb
at lambing time,

bleat of clair-
voyant dread,
the gene-hammer

and tread
of the roused god.
And a result-

ant shock desire
in bystanders
to do it to her

there and then.
Little rent
cunt of their guilt

in she went
to the knife,
to the killer wife,

to the net over
her and her slaver,
the Troy reaver,

saying, "A wipe
of the sponge,
that's it.

The shadow-hinge,
swings unpredict-
ably and the light's

blanked out."