What would it be like if Dionysus was a Bushwick raver, Maenads at his side, high on expensive drugs and storming the grittiest dance floors in the Five Boroughs? Can the elegant decadence of ancient Greece's poster-boy for drunken chaos find a place in the modern bacchanalia of a night club? E.R. Pulgar attempts to answer that question in the first piece from our "Ballads For Dion" poetry series.
Plunge into the kind of chaos that only festers beyond the East River.
Mouths purpled and eyes dusted gold
from whatever we just snorted,
electric green-leaved garland crowns
and stains on our fine clothes—
the Gods wear Balmain
and we don’t care to ruin it.
Lost again in Bushwick evenings,
we are drowning
in decanters of cheap wine—
fucked up, fabulous, fingering decadence.
We are Bacchants,
grateful to be numb
for this is His gift:
cocaine and codeine,
gold chains, rouge, dust, dancefloor boots,
crimson mouth parade, tongues on jugular veins,
electric green-leaved garland crowned,
we ride Elysian tigers
and sing sex hymns with burnt insides—
it ends quick as it came.
Cabs don’t run at 4 AM,
not even for a son of Zeus,
and Morrocan drivers have no time
for my confused wino vomit verses.
Streetlights giving way to morning sun,
I stumble home, chin at eye-level—
as they say in high Olympus,
no God stumbles home like me.
01:04 | 13.01.2016
Brooklyn, New York
E.R. Pulgar was born in Venezuela and raised in Miami amidst palm trees, gritty night life, and dreams of New York City. His work has appeared in Dagda Publishing, Brio and the Gallatin Review. His writing encompasses sex, mysticism, and its context in modern love. He attends New York University, where he is majoring in music journalism, poetry, and film. He lives in Brooklyn.