She was the Daughter of the House of Masks and yet
when the golden thread trembled so did she, unsure
of what might strut from the dark mouth out to the sun.

Then he came, bringing the acrid musk of something
more than sweat and victory and his eyes were as hot
as those ox-blood stains on his ox-hide shield.

All day they celebrated. He ate the figs and olives,
broke the bread and drank the wine of a grateful king
but his eyes stayed on her and they never cooled.

That night in her chamber, she shook again, in time
with the rutting thrust of him, with each guttural grunt
as his thick tongue licked at the salt on her skin.

Rob Evans is an aerospace Engineer who lives near London but who works all over the world.  When not flying or doing sums to prove that he can, he spends his time writing poetry and sometimes reading it to hushed and not-so-hushed audiences.  He is a one-time UK All-Comers Poetry Slam Champion but has since clawed his way back to some kind of respectability.

So many gods but always the same stale joke
played on us in the gardens where gods grow.
In great stone circles and in groves of oak
they’ve suckered in our flesh like mistletoe.
And every god has blessed the world with priests
who made a bloody altar of it all:
a place to flay the unbelieving beasts
‘til they were temples, cleansed and skeletal.

But still some sinners do survive without
a single star to pierce their tenebrous lives.
They read no scriptures yet remain devout
in their belief in Man despite his knives.
I love the godless. I love the way
they go unarmoured into each dark day.

Rob Evans is an aerospace Engineer who lives near London but who works all over the world. When not flying or working, he spends his time writing poetry and sometimes reading it to hushed and not-so-hushed audiences. He is a one-time UK All-Comers Poetry Slam Champion but has since clawed his way back to some kind of respectability.