BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

The Bacchanals the forest floor is throbbing place your palm to the heartbeat the thrumming of animal screams purple vines unfurling swaying to the pulse an unpeeled moon splits against the marble sky while stars drift like cotton threads the men feel red wine bubbling in their throats clawing at their brains inducing frenzied gulping and shattering delicate symmetry mortality bursts at the seams their mumbled words collide and splinter into prayer knife to lips, to knotted vessels bitterness spills over their tongues pestles meet poppy seeds scattered and ground to wincing intoxication they press together entangled the fumbling burn of skin on skin

Eros untethered in a flurry of feathers limbs writhing, teeth bared eyes washed over they unstring their bones thick blood of swine sinks into the soft ground bitter droplets like ink stains decorate their strange impulse their dance to the thrum the rising crescendo of tumbling verse and fervid drums they raise their faces to the heavens to Him.

Afterwards, they close their eyes, take a moment, savour the sweet bliss. They wipe hot blood from their lips, re-attach cufflinks, and clip on ties, dust off their vulgar morality, dampen the gleam in their eyes, and flee with thorn-punctured limbs.

They cower in house-shaped boxes –children afraid of the dark.