Bacchanalia

Festivities. Bring the wine. Bring the winery. The fresh and frozen grapes. Bring them all. I have stories to recount. Of how I conquered Rome. Of how I slayed the giants and the basilisk. The centaur and the siren. Oh marvelous things. How I have found freedom in engagements beyond the flesh. I have tales to share. Of queens. Naked and full bloomed. Blossoming like sunflowers and tulips. Unlike beasts slain by sword. These women. These majestic loves. I have never tasted lips fuller or sweeter. Yes. I have tasted their lips. I have drank of their stock. My gods. How Jupiter has defiled me by not making their presence known earlier. These stories. I tell you in quivering details. In suspense and hesitation. I have known them for nights and days. As if surveying the lands of Mother Rome. And how they have sacrificed themselves. How they have laid on altars and raised my soul. These beasts. That roam in flesh softer than lotions have become my new purposes. I was once a gladiator. And the ludus my home. But since freedom has been gained I have slept inside the bowels of goddess made human. I have grown fields and have raised cattle. These motions. Similar to sword strokes but I have not killed. I have created. In the memory of all the glory of womanhood. Of all their sacrifice and beauty. I say bring the wines. This is for the queens. 

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