
Two Poems
Young cuckoo seeks nest, bring own feathers
Keyed up by the Festival of Naked Youths, and having eaten a
particularly suggestive fig, Sophocles let drop his celibate resolve
and roamed the edge of the clothed spectators where he found
Petros, a youth of cheap tunic and fine features.
The boy was extraordinary about the eyes and had a fluid way that
made of poverty grace. Sophocles recalled the youth’s delicately
muscled abdomen and his fine heft, hew and girth. The price was
agreed and Sophocles led the beautiful youth beyond the walls of
the city. Petros was curious about the latest plays at Epidaurus and
made puppy dog eyes all the while asking about them.
Sophocles was getting worked up in a very pleasant way when the
boy spread his tunic on the turf so that they might lay upon it.
It had been a while, and recent excesses made Sophocles worry.
They covered their gambol with the playwright’s luxurious
cloak—light through the rich purple stripe casting itself athwart the
boy’s chest making him some envoy from a peaceful kingdom by a
quiet sea. Despite the wine orgies, everything went just as planned
and Petros made wonderful moans that seemed crafted in the north
country where they have fewer vowels. He was a sweet boy with a
whiff of pine to him. Sophocles doted and stared at the boy in the
dim of their love tent. Petros said he’d forget him, as he was
a mere rent boy, and that there was nothing worse than being
forgotten by the great—history being the only thing great people
could give that really mattered. Sophocles mused on this, probably
Petros was right. But then again, in the afterglow, anything at all
seemed possible, forgetting, remembering, time stopping, the sun
exploding. The boy rose hurriedly, while Sophocles sleepily lost
himself feeling his testes furl and unfurl based on no logic he could
discern. Broody, but lightning fast, the boy snatched the rich cloak,
and running away toward the city walls, shouted: Now. You.
Won’t.
Sophocles was, for the first time, in love.
You forget it in people
Like most alcoholics, Bacchus had a difficult childhood. His mom,
burnt to cinders upon seeing her husband’s true self, and, his first
boyfriend: killed by a jealous moon. Typical AA stuff. But unlike
most alcoholics, Bacchus invented wine after turning his murdered
boyfriend into a vine. For this reason alone, he never tried AA:
blowback. Anyhow, he grew up like we all do and like all of us
had to bring his mother back from hell.
There are various ways to hell. Handbaskets, good intentions, wide
gates open down broad avenues. But Bacchus had heard tell of a
promising hellmouth at Argo, known for its wool and its fig stews,
and he had a thing for fig stews. There he met many shepherds,
one after the other said: talk to Polymnus with the goats. Polymnus
made a mean fig stew. And while Bacchus gorged himself on the
stuff, making appreciative sounds at regular breathing breaks,
Polymnus described how the bottomless Alcyonian Lake wasn’t
bottomless for nothing. And how he could take him to the most
bottomless part of the lake, where Bacchus could skin dive to Hell.
Upon saying skin dive, Polymnus felt really sexy. It was like this
every time he said those words and he wasn’t sure why. The idea
of nakedness: sure, but also: the uncertainty of the meaning of the
phrase. Couldn’t it just mean, no scuba suit no oxygen tanks. Or
does it have something about the skinness of the skin diving
through the wateriness of the water, one sliding sure and itself over
the other, also sure and even more itself. And the whole thing just
stinks of exciting sex. Bacchus, looking up from his meal, now
bebearded in it itself, caught Polymnus’s eye just then. It was a
nice eye, a green eye. It twinkled a little with skin diving.
They flirted for a while about goats. Polymnus took the chance to
guide Bacchus’s beautiful effeminate hand here and there around
ears and over hinds and highlight things that no non-goatherd
could know. Guild secrets. Bacchus liked how Polymnus cared for
his goats, I mean the way he cared about them, remember, his own
first boyfriend was a satyr, a good part goat. But it was time to hit
the lake. Bacchus watched Polymnus’s broad back row. He had
gorgeous form and the oars never splashed. Bacchus wished his
errand was not as pressing and archetypal. But as they neared the
center of the bottomless lake, Bacchus flirtingly asked if there’s
any souvenir Polymnus might like from Hell. Or a favour? I’d love
to fuck you, the face facing away immediately said. Bacchus
smiled. So you shall! upon my return! Thereupon, Bacchus undid
his cloak and skin dove straight to hell. The adventure following
was typical, there were twists and turns, but let’s say that after
predictable plot development to make the whole thing worthwhile
enough to be called a plot, involving as it does immortals, Bacchus
returned his mom to Olympus. Installing her and getting her
comfortable took a while, but then, when she was settled, his mind
turned to Polymnus and his promise. He set for Argo but could not
find his goatherd. He asked around. And was shown a grave.
Polymnus had died in the late summer, just as the pastures rotated.
No one could say how. Bacchus had cured himself of his mother’s
death, turned his first boyfriend into balm for the soul, but now
was caught up short in honouring a simple, solemn promise. He
found the grave, still just loose soil rung round by rocks and fig
trees. He broke off a branch and started to carve. First he made a
little turtle, which he placed at the head of the grave. Then he made
a hare, which he placed at the foot. Then he made a rather thick
dildo. Now, the Christians who have kicked this story down the
alleyway of history say that what he did next was sit on the stick to
honour his promise. And to be sure, spitting on it copiously, he did
do that, gently but certainly, but being Bacchus, he also fucked the
grave with it, and being Bacchus, he didn’t just fuck it
with the funny little stick.