Socrates’ chalice

I sit in a throne room,  
a sea of maggots  
writhe in the congealed  
drippings from the  
syncophants who thought  
my sex toys made them  
good in bed.  
   
The bodies so infested  
they seemed to jitter    
on the    
ground,  
and I envy their movement.  
   
Until the next man grabs    
a chalice from the    
bargain-sized bin at the door,  
and advances, unseeing,    
waist-deep through  
my sea of blue-lipped corpses.  
   
I like the arrogant sacrifice.    
   
Because, you know,  
I warn you all about the    
hemlock on my lips  
(on my hips)  
But he sees nothing    
past the way he can    
drink deeper than he’s ever    
dreamed to thirst.  
   
It’s cool, because, you know:  
He alone is immune.  
He is the cure.  
   
I like the arrogant sacrifice.  
   
He gets me off…  
but she gets me there  
   
And this is the dilemma.  
   
She covers her nose against the  
rank stench and instead of  
grabbing a chalice laced    
with poison patina,
   
she asks how I live like this,  
holding back her rhetorical gorge    
with pity eyes;
   
and her brow lifts at my hubris,  
and her delicate toes curl in her shoes to keep the fluids from touching her soles,  
   
and she backs away slowly,  
eyes never leaving the exit sign.  
While I remain unchanged,  
   
fists clenched on the    
arms of my throne,
   
awaiting the next thirst.