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.
