tagErotic PoetryErotic Muses: Melpomene

Erotic Muses: Melpomene



O Mother of my desire, fate draws me near,
Though from you I'd be very far,
For your sweet body's taste to me is poisonous.
All my life, I've avoided you, for fear
Of knowing you just as you are:
A lure to an obsession with the lecherous.
The father of my envy is a man
Whom I would kill, for you are his.
He is your king, though I would have you for my queen.
I will avoid his murder if I can,
For such an act of bloodshed is
A crimson river leading to my eyes. Between
Your legs, a paradoxical paradise
Of pleasurable hellishness,
Is a pink doorway to delights I'd be ashamed
To enter, for there I'd be lost in vice
And darkness: truly, a blind bliss.
A frightening thought it is to think the gods have aimed
My destiny down such a pitch black hall,
Where I don't know where I am going,
And ecstasy makes me unconscious of its dangers.
To have you, first your king would have to fall.
I'd kill him if, not knowing
Who he was, I was in a rage. The gods, arrangers
Of cruel fates, could put me in such a passion.
My knife would penetrate his breast,
Then I would push inside you, never coming out.
Much human suffering is caused when in this fashion
We act, and with sex are obsessed.
We see here how, from lust, disaster comes about.


I must not be like prudish Pentheus,
Denying Dionysian ways.
I've long kept you from me, O Mother of my lust,
Believing such a passion's dangerous.
The wilder side of me that sways
Toward ardour's side thinks this repression isn't just.
I must come out and show you how I feel,
And do all I would do with you,
Though such release would make me a goat of a man.
I'd lick between your legs and make you reel
From all my wicked tongue can do;
But I'd abandon you, lasciviously scan
The world for other beauties, and have them.
When my lust starts, it doesn't stop,
And I will stab at all of those who'd hinder me.
My carnal urges, thus, I must condemn,
Suppress, and curb. Yet, if atop
A mountain of self-righteousness and prudery,
I scorn the depths I left when I did climb,
The wine god will be in a rage
And make me fall and crash upon the rocks below.
He'll punish me for my chaste, sober crime--
True foolishness to be so sage.
Thus I am blocked by gods and fate, wherever I go.
I'm torn between indulgence and restraint.
A Maenad holds my every limb,
Ready to rend me into pieces if I play
The shameless sinner or Bacchus-hated saint.
O Mother of lust, my lot seems grim:
I'll lose my head for you; you'll carry it away.


My mistress now, O Mother of desires,
Vexed by my infidelity,
You'd have revenge, destroying all that I do love.
Scheming Medea, you with poisonous fires
Would kill my urges' progeny,
Denying the satisfaction I'm impatient of.
I'd kill to feel breasts in my itching hands;
The wish to have them you've inspired,
But you'd keep them all locked up under lace brassieres.
To bed a girl, I'd go to foreign lands,
Where I found you, and we perspired;
I licked and entered you between your buttock spheres,
For you did tempt me with your nude display.
But I am sated with your skin,
And want to taste the flesh of newer, fresher girls.
You, jealous, want to keep me now at bay,
And kill the fruit of all my sin,
As I removed the man who, with you, went for twirls.
You'd have me as your ideal husband: tame,
With my eyes pointed just at you;
But I am longing for the life I left of late.
A sorceress of love, you then became
A murderess; you've wanted to
Kill all my hopes for glutted lust, wants you'd create.
This is my tragedy, to be a goat
Whose song is endless appetite.
You burned my loins and now demand exclusive love.
The gods helped your revenge, and now you gloat,
Look down at me, a wretched sight,
And fly with your divine friends in the skies above.

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