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Labora Aselle
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The Sacred Antinous
The Oracle of Apollo
To Suffer is to Slip Unnoticed

The marble, a moment in mythic time,
Makes a bold and deliberate contour
Of idyllic calm in the lusty storm.
Methinks I'll reframe it as a widescreen dream,
Paint it with pieces of silicon colour, and,
By legs, its cupbearing function affirm.
Such changes, of course, new customs bestow:
Kindly use coasters on Thorvaldsen's Tableau.

Long months out from three vids in and so I ask:
What's been learned? What's discovered? What abides?
If nothing else, there's the sweet remembrance
Of intensive time spent filming hot psalms.
From there, with sweaty palms, reassuring
Various moms that they are, in fact, Art.
And then, in cooler, less tumulted hours,
A deliberate pause to breathe results.
As to the ratio of Cock to Covered,
I'm convinced now it ought to be modest:
There's little need for perpetual flesh
When hotter, indeed, is the hope for it.
That it comes, when it comes, for the viewer
Like a rogue meteorite, makes it real;
Differ'd from the plain dross of satellites
That tread across a pornographic sky.
All to say: expect but the occasional flesh,
And for its occasion be tantalized.

The Sacred Antinous

What be the mark of an athlete lauded?
What shall determine his gloried success?
Wherefore be men, once stately, besotted
When struck by an athlete the gods caress?
Be it his strength? Speed? Balance, breed or poise?
Be it the beauty of his perfect flesh?
Be it the envy of aspiring boys,
Or pang of his elders for all what’s fresh?
Nay – ‘tis endurance what anoints his win:
Effort ever stretched over months of toil;
Thrusting undaunted through days thick and thin;
Fuelled by the sun and its withering broil!
Come, Antinous – be this for me then:
With athlete’s endurance, engorge again!

If these sketches have offended,
Hear my words, and they're defended:
There's nothing monstrous or vile here:
No harm to minors need you fear.
For tho', in subject, now they speak,
'Tis not their flesh on film I seek.
What's here, through my consuming cam,
Is more the quest for what I am -
Who, as a boy, felt rarely free,
Then as a youth, heard "HIV",
And came of age at last to see
The pride of pyrrhic victory.
For how to brave orgasmic seas
When wild, immune deficiencies
Maraud like pirates o'er the wave,
Their flag: a jolly roger's grave.
To cope, I chose to stay ashore,
Where landlines, wired as ne'er before,
Were streaming to my CRT
Treasure troves of pornography.
How perfectly convenient then
To spend my nights in private zen
And learn to love the lifeless scree
Whose soul was smut -- but safe and clean.

Long through the digital desert I've tread -
A pack-eDerm Packet in the backbone ditch.
The i of that needle before me, when thread,
Shall grant my Requestor his network swtich.
Great be the gods of fiber-optiPhonica,
Whose beaches to cyber-erotica!

Neptune's Trident

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