Eurydice & Orpheus

I

Eurydice and Orpheus

are seated at the bar,

hands nested in each other’s palms,

and pupils knit like yarn.

Their lips are restless, wandering,

to soak the other’s cheek,

but disapproving glances force

them teasingly to leave.

She’d love to fuck him endlessly,

but it’s a weekday and it’s late.

They pull apart unwilling,

as his stiffy starts to chafe.

The morning after Orpheus

confides to his guitar.

He charts the agonies of love—

the trials of his poor heart.

He tries to frame Eurydice

in bland acoustic pop,

and clings to clichés carelessly.

He frets. Then sighs. Then stops.

The trouble is he cannot start

to praise her peerless mind,

when all his inspiration is

for wand’ring eyes to find;

and though the marriage of true minds

was always his ideal,

a bodiless and senseless love

is difficult to feel.

II

The next day brought a dinner date

and promised true romance.

They’d booked a table, called a cab—

not leaving things to chance.

The waiters hurried to their side.

The wine was flowing fast.

Their fellow diners grimaced at

Eurydice’s violent laugh.

Three courses later Orpheus

claims he must foot the bill.

They stumble out the restaurant

and stagger up the hill.

The bedroom beckons, Orpheus

swiftly fumbles at her clothes.

He grinds on her mechanically.

She tries to fake a moan.

When he comes she thinks, ‘thank God that’s done!’

and says she must go home.

It seems she’s drunker than she thought,

as she struggles with her clothes.

The morning after Orpheus

arises with a groan,

surprised to hear the troubled tones

of Jason on the phone.

A deafly silence clouds his ears.

His insides sink like lead.

‘I don’t know how to say this, mate,

Eurydice is dead.’

III

In the hours after Orpheus

is madly writing songs.

He tries to capture his despair,

served up three minutes long.

The neighbours shudder at the sound

of his caterwauling wail,

as sobbing for his sweetheart’s death,

he dreams of album sales.

The funeral comes and Orpheus

sings his love an epitaph.

The mourners grimly clench their teeth

and struggle not to laugh,

aside from someone at the back—

a woman in a veil.

She giggles softly to herself

at her boyfriend’s deafening wail.

Eurydice, see, faked her death—

life’s too short for bad sex.

He only loved her carnally,

but was a bloody bore in bed.

Besides, his songs were pretty shit—

he could hardly hit a note.

So she softly feels the purple marks

of Jason on her throat.

And Orpheus, that ghastly man,

was soon in love again.

Persephone craved his hellish shriek—

you can’t account for taste.