poetryrepairs 16,09:106

ROBIN OUZMAN HISLOP : Tenochtitlan
ROBIN OUZMAN HISLOP : Solaris

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ROBIN OUZMAN HISLOP
Tenochtitlan

note Tenochtitlan. Great lake city that for two centuries was the capital of the Atzec empire, built by the warring Mexica tribes of the Atzec peoples &destroyed by the Spanish conquistador Hernan Cortes in 1519.
Who is to say? O Tenochtitlan, lake city of floral rooftops, white washed walls trim green gardens, aqueducts &clean swept alleyways that you should fall to ruin to colossal wreck. Your God’s cruel laughter ruler of havoc, chaos, destruction that final mockery you knew too well to shelter from city of magic, bathed in blood. * Who is to say? An Aeon a fated sun in its fifth heaven the prophecy must be fulfilled when they came in their filth, their lust to tread your sacred warrior blood matted hair, immersed in feculence en plein air of unassuaged sacrifice, into dust not a death of feathers & flowers. * Who is to say? As you tossed your hapless victim’s corpse, gouged heart devoured on the sacrificial stone slab, down the great pyramid steps to the suffering poor beneath. Your captive, who was your self whose steps you’d rehearsed, unto their final agony. Whose flesh, prohibitive for you, you must share in scattered pieces on the base maize porridge in your neighbours’ clean kept homes but not to the wretched poor the phantom watchers, who must only crave for more. * Who is to say? that you thought of tomorrow that it belonged to the deed what it was to be human. Not so, your new world order conquerors who raised to the ground &levelled all before them until nothing remained. Your conquerors, who thought only of tomorrow.

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ROBIN OUZMAN HISLOP
Solaris

Notes: Solaris. Stanislaw Lem
I’m out of the Station out of the shuttle perched on this moving crumbling Mimoid in its shimmering ocean disintegrating like an ancient city in ruins like a Pompeii in lava. Suddenly there’s Snow’s voice in my brain, she’s gone Kelvin she’s gone, she was just a projection. The ocean laps at my booted feet as if to anoint them as porous stalagmites slide underward. It’s in my blood, but not my blood our crystals are alien, i hear Snow’s voice again, like an echo She was just a projection & you, Snow, what are you, i yell as the stalactites fall to dust – ‘Snow!’

poetryrepairs #228 16,09:106






   




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ROBIN OUZMAN HISLOP, born UK, a reader in philosophy &religions, has traveled extensively throughout his lifetime but now lives in semi- retirement as a TEFL teacher and translator in Spain &the UK.

ROBIN OUZMAN HISLOP Robin was editor of the 12 year running on-line monthly poetry journal Poetry Life and Times. In 2013 he joined with Dave Jackson as co-editor at Artvilla.com, where he presently edits Poetry Life & Times, Artvilla.com, Motherbird.com.


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