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Yet [*/+/^] : 27.225 MHz, Some Final Measures; Temple Guard's Account
After Pilate's sentences of death are declared,
none of the accused escape to survive.
After burial in the tomb, or a toss into a ditch,
none of the crucified dead emerge alive.
The vulgar Romans carried out the High Priest's will
while we, the Tenple Guards, and the priests remained, still,
ritually pure to participate in Passover---
standing, as the saying goes, in tall and dewdrenched clover.
*
Enough of chatter---let me remind you
that I am not usually attracted
to beautiful adolescent males: no!
And though I am not that much older than
they are, I know enough---and know myself
well enough---to be sure, very certain
indeed---that I dislike the long hair, the
lack of cultivated musculature
(those sissified, delicate strumpets avoid
the strenuous lifting of weights for just
that purpose), and the exagerrated
flamboyance of their conversations and
gestures. Blue eye shadow and clear lip gloss
do not, in any way, enhance their appeal
to me. That young man in the garden, known
among the followers---yes!, of that Jesus,
that imposter!---as Neaniskos, was
exactly like those others I have described,
perhaps even more so. Clad in a linen
cloth---nothing more---he was a bystander,
but as guilty as the other followers
of that discredited rabbi. Suddenly,
I wanted to rape him---which would have been
less delightful to me had he been willing
to give himself to me---to ravage and
savage him, with a damn good beating to
follow: to damage his posterior
and to purple his flesh with severe bruising
after I had taken my pleasure. All
of that rushed through my mind, like a fierce storm
crossing the desert. But then, that Jesus
identified himself, and we fell back
and down, and then he---yes, that Jesus!---even
commanded us that his followers should
not be detained. And like them, at that moment,
Neaniskos fled away. I have made
some discrete inquiries about him, since.
He is said to have been born in the village
of Nain, his mother's only child, who, having
died suddenly, was raised out of death by that
Jesus. Now, I have also learned, that the
centurion (Marcus something or other)---
who had led the execution detail
who crucified the blasphemer, that Jesus---
has fallen in love with Neaniskos
and is courting the little whore, with much
more success than Corydon had obtained
from Alexis in that poem we have been
forbidden to read. And both of them are,
apparently, convinced that Jesus is
again alive, having risen from the
tomb in which that Joseph, himself a member
of the Sanhedrin (but soon to be expelled),
buried what was left of him (he died after
six hours---accelerated, most likely,
by the thorough beating those Romans gave
him). Only a week has passed: before the
month ends, all this will be remembered only
as the slurred utterances of drunkards,
or the giggled babble of lunatics,
or the sad, wishful hopes of those desperate
losers among our people, Israel.
Someone is even singing songs about
that Jesus, gathering up all that has
been told about him; the singer has quite
a vocal, melodic range. I have seen
and heard him---a barefoot minstrel (as some
think David, the shepherd boy was), and as
beautiful and young, as Neaniskos,
and me (yes, I am well aware; you need
not remind me). Yes, I admit, I asked
around for the singer's name, and he is
called, among that sort, Adam the Lambent.
Starward
[*/+/^]
