PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

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.

J-Called

[*/+/^]