‘Chaos A Raw and Undivided Mass’ Mass 3/4 : Transformations Poems (Book 1)

20 Mar


George Braque Metamorphoses

February 2013-March 2014

17 poets, 15 months, creating 1 contemporary reworking of Ovid’s Metamorphoses

See the Transformations Page for more details or the ‘Present Collaborations’ Tab


Poems Inspired by Book 1 


Sadaf Fatima and Richard Biddle 


Our Rulers


Sadaf Fatima


Are we not living in the world of deceit?

Where the rich rule and poor stay weak

Can you not see Jupiter and Apollo?

In the rulers we choose

They loot, plunder and misuse!

While some of us are alarmed

Like Juno, others hurt like Io

Self-gratification is what they seek,

On expense of the lives of the weak

We must not look up to these demi gods for our good

But stand up, be strong and do what we should!


Chaotic Cosmetics

by  Richard Biddle


In my head stands a lone wolf. On the face of it, a smoking

Muzzle, snarling like a sawn-off shotgun. Then this stony


silence makes my flesh creep, forms a contentious fishbone

manmade within this textual body. I chastise myself for


vegetating and not rooting for an underground movement.

Ironically, I tighten the tourniquet and shoot up. Now, down


on all fours, I cream a low scream from my cowering throat

while bullishly milking this mythical figure. Musing on these


pipe dreams, I wonder how things will pan out and conclude,

instrumentally, I should just have a go at it kid.


Changing before your eyes my impatient lies, etherised, spread

upon the table like a remote sky. A catalogue of inverse proportions,

out of focus with each fragment’s word-sense. Wild ideas that

should be sectioned bookishly; meaning mentally, I divide regions,

cut and paste into manageable chunks and surgically remove my ego’s

imperfect victim in order to remix the void.


I chastise the movement and in my throat stands a mythical wolf.

Then this stony creep makes my snarling, like a cowering


pipe while bullishly milking this lone tourniquet,

ironically, manmade within this textual body. On the face


of it, a low scream from my sawn-off head. I tighten

myself for vegetating and figure, shoot up. A smoking muzzle,


flesh-musing on these shotgun dreams. I wonder how things

will pan out and conclude, silence forms a contentious fishbone.


Now, down on all fours, I cream instrumentally, not rooting

for an underground, I should just have a go at it kid.


Flooded With Doubt

by Richard Biddle


this brain is cumulonimbus, blue-raining

blue thoughts through this vibrant corpse

with uncertainty


this rain is an obscure bloom clouded

with gloomy reflections, its torrential

message; a final curtain


this pain is a foaming rhythm hammering

heartlessly into the shoes of my feet

serpentine, suffocating


this saturation is a jade-black sponge

twisting wet, diluting my hated cells

with greed and seeds


this name is witness to the green oomph

that forces its drowned panic into my

parched throat


this scream is dragged from writhing

bodies like a trance or a trick then set

unfathomably adrift


this beneath is an exit with no chance

of dancing towards tragedy. It ends in

bloated buoyancy


this seepage takes the sun away. They

rise again, unmade. A pitiful rainbow

awash with pearlescent pores


this water is undying power and all the

animals aboard my leaking boat watch

as the world falls apart



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