"... and in the homosexual phase which would follow Eurydice's death...
Orpheus sings no more, he writes." Jacques Derrida.
"and then Eurydice died of HIV/AIDS. That was homophobia." Chris Jones.
"My ghost my lover"
A past lover to me returns,
A boy who most
pleasured me
of all who gave
as beast to beast
and no more asked
but wanton desire;
His ghost has come
come back for me
Singlet clad
in summer's heat
plucking his old
acoustic guitar;
his sweet voice
doodles melodies
of new songs
shooting to
number one
all smash hits;
my ghost my lover
remembering
Sodom's night of the year;
evangelical
proto-fascists
carefully studied
weather maps
planned
public prayers
saying dear lord
let there be rain;
Wet sex
at the place
in love's world
where eros is made
Rejoice.
He's gone, he's gone, he's gone;
better that
he never came
at all
better never to love. . .
Isn't it said
it's better to have
loved and lost
then never to have
loved at all;
better he made
his choice to go
then be made
to stay
unwelcome
a trap of thorns
beckon his touch
my ghost my lover
his down cast eyes
posed for a photo
brow farrowed
squinting at the sun
an all Australian boy
mischievous grin
hands inside bib
and brace overalls
he came into
the lens into my
heart making my
toes curl my
body shiver
a real sexpot
wanton slut with
the desert hot
Australian sun
on his bare
backside in the
back of the ute
on the harsh
expansive
land we
made love.
From bed to bar to beat
you enticed my affections
for on this stage we are excellent players
heard above the din of many a babbled story
full of threat
empty of content
a cure we have to deadly intentions
we lack nothing
we act;
Our nights leave the day lost.
Homophobia is dead.
It should die
for tomorrow, tomorrow and tomorrow
just yesterday's fools;
today, stay home
take me please
to your room
make love siesta
smoke grass spend
Sunday stoned;
loll naked on your queensize bed
nibble small sweet
sultana grapes
drink lemon grass tea.
Chris Jones, 1990.
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