Playstation (04)

I’m writing down ideas she told
her husband behind, and her son
with a Playstation. The Bacchae
couldn’t distract, Pentheus a bone-bag,

his rival Dionysus lithe and girlish
among his maiden acolytes,
who wildly roll their eyes back
as she scribbles on a notepad.

They're dressed in rags and garlands,
even the burghermeisters of Thebes,
old men who make fools of themselves,
shillelaghs aswing in each gnarled fist,

beyond the town no boundaries,
no perforations, when solids dissolve,
where it’s rumored adders suckle women.
The bars of Thebes’ lockup bend like rubber.

In his hands dissolves a whole city
in pixels, after the Playstation's hero
has leaped a canyon of sky-scrapers,
tiny giant not to be outdone by mother.

Dionysus, Asiatic god of abandon,
doesn’t need to try. Tiny giant,
Phosphorescent keypad. Tiny notebook,
ideas jotted down beyond borders.

The play is some dry-as-dust codex,
the god’s antagonist a bone-bag.
The bacchantes writhe on the floor
like snake-handlers or holy-rollers.

All depends upon the screen's angle.
When her son turns the Playstation
the misty metropolis his giant scaled
dissolves, a blue screen of death.

Dionysus only waves a thrysus
while she’s writing her ideas down
as the bacchantes twist on the floor,
for the son, who when he grows,

will not confine ideas to Playstations
nor to buildings vanished like holograms
sunk in credit cards. His encryptions
will raise or bring the buildings down,

her idea first: archive it on a notepad.