"Except a poet. All of them are queer."
---Dorothy Parker, "From A Letter By Lesbia."
Catullus' predilection quite annoys
me: pleasures that he finds in, and deploys
toward long-haired, naked, adolescent boys
as they explore, together, certain joys
(homogenous, he calls them; I say, weird).
Our situation is just as I feared:
he uses me as a convenient beard
so that he will not be outed, or queered.
He plans to construct his own epic poem,
Eros And Ganymede, from some old tome
(ancient, as evanescent as sea foam)
he keeps in our cohabitative home.
He says his soul reaches a sense of completeness
when some young stuff releases cascading sweetness.
J-Called
[*/+/^]