The New Aeon
An age turns, the cosmos renews itself,
a new era comes to formation, begins to coalesce.
No more will the gods be pleased by the shedding of blood
of animal or man, of god or human, from penis or from body–
but instead will they live again on the earth
when blood courses quickly through veins
in excitement, joy, sorrow, or ecstasy.
Gifts of words will be the new libations,
gifts of art and beauty the new flayed flesh.
No more will the end of a tale of love
be built upon the bodies of lovers
dead, drowned, destroyed by discus;
beautiful flowers given between lovers
will replace the dead becoming flowers.
No more will children fall from the sky
because they have not heeded advice of fathers,
nor will children be thrown into the sea
because mothers have been lost in madness.
No more will the stars tell stories,
but instead the stars will walk clothed,
the stories will be the lives of humans.
Those who do not know history
are doomed to repeat it, they say,
and those who know myth
are condemned to shape their lives by it.
Too many have neither known history nor myth,
or have mistaken myth for history
and have repeated it,
or have confused history for myth
and written themselves into lies.
No more of this, no more of this–
Instead, the love of comrades
will be the law of the land,
the love of equals the rule of all,
whether they are of any gender, race,
young or old, rich or poor,
citizens or foreigners, ailing or hale.
Instead, we will live under a new dispensation.
The age of the Crowned and Conquering Child:
he who will rule will be a Bithynian Boy
crowned with a garland of red Nile lotus flowers,
a strong sceptre for slaying lions,
the age of the sun against water-bearers…
but the water will not dry out, will not stop.
In his very body a holy river’s water runs,
the seed of gods flowing alive through him.
He offers his crown to those who wish it,
to take their places among the immortal heroes.
A crown which is a mask, which is a mantle,
which is a cloak, which is a wolf-skin cap,
which is a pen, which is a wine-krater,
which is an aegis of stone-turning and reflection,
which is a loyal guard hound for hunting,
a beautiful tune on an electric lyre,
a voice from a tongue of gold,
a silver thigh, a veil, the smell of storax,
the dream of a thousand oracles
and a temple built of hearts and roofed with minds.
An Emperor called him god, an Empress savior,
a land its native son, a city its local hero,
a citizen his protector, a woman “the lovely,”
and in ages near and far, a small group of people
called him Liberator, Lover, and Navigator.
O child of the starlight, o spider of dreams,
o most beautiful flower on Rhebas’ shore,
skin of warm honey-colored marble,
hair of the curly goat-footed god,
eyes of shining emerald, teeth of pearls,
a smooth small pillar of amethyst his phallus,
his breath more gentle than the breezes of summer…
Sing to us of the coming age, o flawless young god,
the age you help all humanity to bring forth
in the company of the many goddesses who give it birth
and the gods who engender it
and the deities who are beyond gender
that nurture and sustain and uphold it
through the ages upon the ages to come.