Volume 3 Number 2
The endless sussing of the surf
Masks the moans of drowning men.
Bound and bagged they're left in the brine
By the hands of snarling cyclopes.
The giants laugh and lounge languid
On the belt of the blood-inked beach.
They fan the cookfires that will roast
The coin-crazed Phoenician merchants.
The sailors' ship lies swamped offshore
Its hull holed by giant-thrown stones.
The crewmen who survived now sob
And gurgle as the cyclopes gloat.
The captured captain of the crew
Prayed with a pathetic passion.
But no divine deliverance
Occurred in that fell and foul cove.
As the flooded Phoenicians fail,
The crew cry impotent curses.
They will the vengeful words away
To hurl at Homer who doomed them.