Electra is in a lot of humans, is a lot of humans, but this has been a bomb in the city. A bombshell, with repercussions.
—I know it won’t change anything, says Electra.
(No, you’re doing yourself down.)
—All the same, says the morose poet, I think we are getting closer.
With his best step-gently psychotherapist manner,
Called repercussions for a reason, they resonate, the music of the spheres (and how soon that original can be lost in the fuss and noise).
But already the unheavenly harmonies are that cats are being chased by bats. And even though Mayakovsky likes cats, it is good that there was some levelling of the odds: domestic cats tended to cut such a wide swathe through smaller animals, mice, shrews, songbirds, rabbits, even squirrels.
It’s a symbol, when the older generation do something hideous and whitewash over it,
Born to the incorrect parents, how much? this much? very much? when all are lobbed towards, at least slightly, the incorrect parents.
Given, or being, a busted flush and there to start, easy, no, whoever said easy?
When born to a weird world, rich and strange, curious, peculiar to the wise
— wiser, more peculiar —
But it was like that when arrived at, not soon to be altered,
So best not to complain too loudly (in case of the posses).
She tries it out: being Elektra, Justice is inside me…
—I am the Ark of the Covenant, the tablets of the Law inside me; when the covenant is broken, I feel it as a distinct sickness within. Despoiled, perhaps even worse than that. And when, by the press of power, the scales are held permanently against me, inconsolable, I become mad.
Now I am beginning to channel my madness. She’s not smiling now; she is serene, quite scary.
Probably it was her brother, Orestes, who said:
Best not be too cruel to me on my way down — just in case we should meet again on my way up.
And there’s definitely something of that in her now.