O Agrotis

The terrace is a geriatric wing
Beneath a canopy of foliage,
Where you flop in meridian shadows
Panting like a pride of well fed lions.
Your skin is a slow drying doe with an egg glaze,
Pools of opaque albumen are blood burst eyes
That squint through phased irises,
Black and hollow like tunnels of your mind
Etched with agronomy, stench and incest.
And in between a sweet virgin
And the scent of oregano.
Did you ever have colour in your life?
No,
Colour and comfort were not your lot,
Only grey,
Grey, grey and more grey,
Layers of grey
That will be peeled from your body when you die
Like the layers of an onion bringing tears.
Now all you need is a rackety chair
And patched workwear for planting cabbages.
There is no woman's clucking here,
Only the bark of your grumbling soliloquy
And a siphonic slurping of coffee while you
Snook and spit over a dish of olives
And a karafachi of raki.
And your woman meanwhile
Is on the hill gathering horta in a plastic bag.
No doubt you will take your katsouna to her
If she doesn't feed you or let you fuck her,
Even though you smell of old goat.
And between the gobbing up and grunting
You still have the gall to ask me for sex
As though the only memory you have
Is nature's call in your bollocks
Like a need to urinate or finger beads.
It is too late for education,
An eagle points its wingtips to heaven
But all you see is the earth that bore you.

(Horta is the name given to wild greens)