Well hi. I’m Erato. Or… that’s what the Greeks called me. It’s.. more complex than that. It always is. I’m not a god, you see. I’m a muse. An .. inspiration. I’m not exactly embodied, or rather…. Let me start again. See, there’s a place – where the creative and the … reproductive… urges coincide. Where inspiration bends minds and bodies towards the erotic, the intimate.. and the perverted. Where words weave through minds, caress bodies. Slim syllables running down your chest, wet words falling on your breast, lips and breath shaped around each part of you.. Am I going too fast? Ok fine. I’m the god of talking about fucking.
For centuries, millennia, the changes in the world I saw were wrought by mortals. Busy, each building on what came before, and each passing, while the gods grew steadily quieter, turned in upon themselves. Perhaps that’s why I saw so much in these firefly lives, to join them, to be my own flash of light in the darkness.
A poet must understand words, be comfortable with ambiguity, with misdirection. Where each word must carry itself and the weight of the whole. What do these words you chose evoke, how do they sit beside each other in a mouth (for poems are meant to be read aloud), do they wrestle for space? Do they drip from your lips?
I suppose it’s like sex on the beach – better in theory than in practice unless you’re well prepared or you really, really like sand. Maybe a cell would be sexier if the bed was softer and the heating worked.
I’d also like to be very clear, if everyone involved isn’t into it, it’s not erotic. It’s not sex. There are plenty of other words for it, use one of them. Need a clear analogy? I can hit you with a frying pan, but that doesn’t make it cooking.
I mean – so I’m a muse. Specifically the muse of erotic poetry. I’ve been hanging around humans since they discovered that the right words in the right order were even more effective at instilling reproductive enthusiasm than those fermented grapes were.