Ronan Ira
bakkhai at the gay bar
maenads on the dance floor writhe sinuous as grapevines
the air glitters, shimmers
like heat waves off asphalt
resinous walls milk-glisten
smell of fennel and honey
feel the bass tympanic-thrumming
the growing into each other
and the god—
hear the god whisper with his hands full of snakes
c’mon in
bring a lover or find a lover
twist your limbs together until you can taste their
heartbeat in your mouth
until you can’t tell where they end
where you begin
c’mon in
take your thoughts and turn them animal
toss your deerthroat to the sky
try to swallow the moon
which is really a disco ball, a million refractions of light
but now enter pentheus, the non-believer
thinking himself a hunter
wanting for some lifeless lipgloss pash to leer at
some faggot to slur at
to bury the want for something deeper
with a dangerous gleam of truth
(boy in his mother’s dress pushed to the back with the mothballs)
the god tugs at his collar
spits wineblood madness into his mouth
c’mon in
we know what it really means to dissect
someone with your eyes
someone with your eyes
and pentheus is stumbling
into the throng
a stag to the siren call of headlights
lion-faced lamb to slaughter
record scratch. pentheus a discordant note
in the symphony of these bodies
heads slowly turning
til all he sees is eyeshine and exposed canines
and the god—
the god is everywhere, leopard-skinned
cheshire-smiling in the dark
blood on the floor. blood on the disco ball.
on faces
hands
throats
mouths
pentheus with his chest cavity cracked open like a pomegranate
queen holds remains aloft, sans-body
stoned nails clawed in thinning hair
crows
how’s your head
and the crowd chants back in laughing unison
haven’t had any complaints
Ronan Ira studied Classics at uni and he’s going to make it everyone else’s problem. You can find him in his Pōneke flat engaging in transgenderism and eating olives out of the jar.