When we dance under strobe lights that pulse 
like falling stars, to music so loud we feel it in our hearts, 
does Dionysus think we look like his Maenads
before they ripped poor King Pentheus apart?
Is the musician’s stage his new sacrificial fire?
Do we make him strong when we spend countless hours
dancing around the DJ the way his Maenads danced around him?

What a shame that most of us don’t even have the courage 
to dance without a drink burning through our bloodstream, 
a few good shots, taken with a grain of salt, 
enough for heavy weightlessness to set in 
and dull our senses so we finally feel free; 
I wonder if Dionysus is proud when we crave 
the sweet burn of poison down our throats.

I wonder if he prefers our neat little pills,
probably half talc or cornflour, but at least 
they don’t leave a stain, like leftover powder 
or blood dripping from a septic needle; is it the same 
as the blood that dripped from Herakles’ arrows 
when his madness turned to murder? I suppose, be it blood lust 
or party drugs, madness will always outlast us.

Image by Wendy Wei