Minotauro 🐂
Ancient mythmaking & colonial retellings
semi enchanted isle
this island, this damn,
this stage of impunity
deserted playground
I have wandered this desert like a vagabond
sped down the highway of dreams
sun ablazing
the city is a cesspool
a tower of smoke
shit the earth spat out
emblematic of the cycles of
birth, growth, death and decay
brutalizing the earth’s ancient dust
feeding on the carcass’ of forgotten seas
the bones of the warriors under my feet
meets the marrow of brittle bones
a fossil
decrepit earth
desecrated sea
like the desert that refuses to bloom
earth’s catastrophe
craving the sun’s rays
without it, the planet will die
it is dying already
just as I
𓄀
I was made in the womb of an angry bull
straddled by a parent god that bore me ill
no one could imagine
the figure of disdain
that I would one day become
fruit of the womb
I stare at my former self
my birth a travesty
my soul a fire to be extinguished
their only task was to carry the bodies
the children marched into the town square
a parade of animals
they saw them as meat
as nothing, as dead,
what was once was a body is now
just skin, teeth, and sunken orbs
the people carried on
their job had gone from protection to annihilation
until only the “good people” were left
anyone that wasn’t them were false beings
had I seen myself
I would have wept
the tears of the gods
you are more than the broken pieces of your interior
𓄀
empire speaks in riddles and platitudes
told with a mixture of hatred and efficiency
when it tires of both
it speaks in the language of crime
tall tales of bloody history
inky remains
built on the tongues of extracted people
phantom heroics
upon him hung all those they murdered
with their words and deeds
my tongue lets blood
genocidal red
beauty was absent from my vocabulary
a minotaur referred to by many names
I have been a noun for eternity
a mock image
a symbol of the time
a lost lover
haze of media and nostalgic song
knowledge is but a fever dream
usurped many moons ago by digital debris
your remains the graven image no one will pray to
the digital specter of a misforgotten century
I sold that lie a thousand times
told them they were stuck in their trauma
they waited for promises
they clung to their definitions and refused to dream
words of mortals
we use them to construct fantasies
another monster’s philosophy
the minotaur was known for their blasphemy
you weaponize words to cultivate false belonging
such is the way of capital and all its charms
it has studied the roots of hunger for centuries
this tool is the minotaur’s legacy as much as you wish to decry it
there is no act 3, that is a myth
people like stories but the world is chaos
break the filthy vows
your prophecy is groundless
the ages that bore me were a litany of tragedies
mine was its zenith
sing a song of ruin
sell us your dreams
tomorrow’s song will be a prayer
build a tragedy for its what I know best
𓄀
resilient beast
a relic from the age of extinction
being on the brink of disaster is the natural order of things
the universalities of destruction
the oxidized metal ruins can be refashioned
I fancied I could make a killing
I crave my own punishment, trauma defines me
I will make a tapestry of which honor will bleed
Che as minotaur
banished idol
what a strange being
they rule because even in exile
they are what the people need
wondering if they can return
Che was the vanguard
a ghost of the present
an execution
ready to fail
the end of all ends
what is this labyrinth?
who is this monster?
𓄀
a stage set
this beast wore a crown
at other times a cape
a suit of scaly matter
strange regalia
sought to demonstrate
I still have the power
to render visions and dreams
is there not another world
manufactured
that makes the self
an immortal fixture of the popular dream
through them the people can see
those that wear the crowns of power & privilege
the birth and rebirth of maligned heroines
I was empire itself
a star for eternity
I came alive only after the wars
after the lights came down the stage
centerpiece of my own floor show
alone with my audience
no need for applause
roar it into being
you were a pretend king
you walk in my shadow
a child with unruly hair
bow down my warrior angel
you are nothing but a servant to me
the diva’s last song must be sung
finally the world was being set right
the true order was being achieved
in simulacro we can have everything
𓄀
optimism was the guiding principle of chaos
Dionysus’ long lost cousin
wine, bread, Christ
gorging on and praying to your sacrificial blood
I am not a god
I’m merely me, person, tree, a whole new thing
a wild new incarnation from speculation
floating in the revelry of all my different eras
beasts of the field will play
I’m fasting, I keep myself clean
hungry, ravenous, devouring
shorted of their craving
the wine seduced you
we are thirsty beings, our species depends on thirst
tender, ripe, aching for fruit
it is my daily bread
we must drink
toast to a host of addictive substances
drink their souls upon the horny beasts
line your teeth with the nectar of many gods
ruinous feast
when capital sunk its teeth into me
a full belly, a semblance of satisfaction
these cheeks flush with expectancy
the kiss you once craved will be born of our lips
they embrace each one, known or unknown
made love to the craters of the moon itself
as if greeting a long lost lover
I am still flesh and matter
I am still spit and sinew
I will devour you
𓄀
the minotaur was deemed a monster
you were its lover
that makes you a monster too
It seems I enjoy creating patchwork poems and cento pieces. I don’t consider myself a writer so I view these as self indulgent collage experiments. At times cringe but I’m trying to share unfinished and meandering trails of thought in an attempt to increase my tolerance for failure.
This post was inspired by MINOTAUR:
‘a new piece for performance by Caridad Svich, stages the final interview of a former revolutionary turned relic — part political icon, part beast — sustained by the wreckage of their own mythmaking.
What does it mean to kill a legend? Who gets to tell the story of empire’s end? How do bodies persist when history forgets them — and how does power survive inside the machines we leave running? Blending myth and political critique, Minotaur asks what remains after the spectacle dies.’
You can read part of the monologue here, or listen to Caridad read an excerpt aloud here. There’s also an intimate review of the live play here. The music used in the background of the voiceover is an instrumental by Moon Face from their album This One’s for the Dancer & This One’s for the Dancer’s Bouquet.
Wow. Stunning. Thank you!