Not Pan, the Goat herder, the Goat fucker,
lover of Goat porn. Nothing sleeps within
the trees here. Those gods died with their timber
hacked from bygone groves. Still, a thing moves in
the dark these days. Even you, as faithless
as you are, feel it. Your limb’s lust each time
voluptuous Plump Rump Callipyge Venus
calls. The other old school booty. Sublime
curves in this cleared land. Venus spreads her cheeks
while I tease with cock and thumb. Rude, sacred
prayers are still out there; just not Pan, the Goat
fucker. Who’ll teach you new techniques
if you’ve lost your faith? Fill my head, she said,
with prayer. I’ll gag on your cock in my throat.
The Romantic poets (Shelley, Byron, etc.) spend a lot of time moaning that ancient Greece’s eden, Arcadia, is lost to us in this modern era of cynicism and technology. According to the Greek historian Plutarch, Pan (protector of shepherds, seducer of nymphs and inventor of the syrinx panpipes) is the only Greek god who actually dies (and with him, Arcadia). According to myth, a sailor on his way to Italy heard a divine voice hail him across the waves: “When you reach the harbor at Palodes, tell the world that the great god Pan is dead.” Why some myths become popular while others don’t (especially considering Lord “I’ll Fuck Anything That Moves” Byron) I have always been fond of the stories about the Callipygian Venus, who the Romans called: “Venus with the Beautiful Ass.” Hers is an Arcadia that will never be lost.