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Carlo Parcelli
[Dog Bite in Exile] Monologue for an Imaginary
Actor
Translated from the Sermo Vulgaris By Harald Comus Earwicker and Carlo Parcelli |
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Chase after a dog and he’ll never bite; Drink before thirst and it will never bite you. - Francois Rabelais _______________________________________
Foreword:The autobiographical monologue, Canus Ictus Exilium (Canus Ictus in Exile), by the Roman Cynic philosopher and actor Canus Bilius Augustus Ictus was ‘discovered’ by Dr. Harald C. Earwicker in the library of the Benedictine Monastery at Subiaco in Central Italy in 1984. The work, which was considered of no interest or merit by literary scholars, poets, philologists and philosophers alike, was housed in a discarded chamber pot for 1300 years. The text consists of 441 vellum rectangular sheets dating from about 700CE. Though most of the sheets are quite well-preserved, some show signs of having been used as bibs, aprons, dart boards or lining for the many canary cages that adorn the monastery. Nothing is known of the work’s author, Canus Ictus and no other works of his are extant. It is generally assumed from examining the contents of the text that Canus lived sometime between the First Century BC and the First Century CE and may have suffered from palsy of the ball sack, duck mouth and male pattern baldness. In 819CE, a young priest named Giuseppe Rastus was accused of stealing chickens, selling indulgences, disemboweling wine barrels, sampling barmaids and bearbaiting on the Sabbath throughout the Abruzzi region. He was given the task of transcribing Canus’s text as a penance, a punishment assigned directly from the Vatican by Pope Sergius I. Presumably after the transcription was completed the original was destroyed probably by Father Rastus himself of whom it was said was subject to violent fits. Little is known of Father Rastus’s subsequent years at the monastery. That the priest loathed his penance is evident by the voluminous marginalia he scribbled at the borders of Canus’s text. Despising his task and its author, Rastus wrote such niceties in reference to Canus’s work as “quod culus” (what an asshole), “insipientiore” (simpleton), “pato pro cerebro” (shit for brains), “caput stercore” (shithead), “putidum pila sacci” (stinking ball sack), “asinus labia” (donkey lips) etc. Further, all of the priest’s illustrated initials were of crude stick figures resembling Roman graffiti usually of Jesus performing cunninglingus on a nun or a priest performing sodomy on a goose or other waterfowl. Canus’s text is written in a colloquial Latin known as Sermo Vulgaris. In 1998, Mr. Earwicker contacted Carlo Parcelli, a leading authority on vulgar tongues for aid in translating the Canus text which E. had managed to spirit away from Subiaco. For the past 16 years both gentlemen have worked assiduously to bring this warrantless manuscript before the public. The initial installment of Canus Ictus in Exilium in English translation is presented below. _____________________________ Translator’s Note: The translators have attempted to maintain the clumsy rhythms, mixed tenses, awkward rhymes, confounding inversions and dull, ponderous wit of the original. As a result less inebriated readers may find the translation of Canus abstruse and brutish. For those readers allow us to invert Dr. Rabelais’ bon mots. Rabelais wrote, “Go there and drink”. We say ‘Drink. Then go there’. _____________________________ Canus is exiled to an uncharted insula What be it ta me this exile but be I thrice honored? First, what be a said fame if it warrant such And this be a labor a shites as what me Thinks be a bug a their blankets And a fly a their wine. A canker a their bum and A palsy ta the pocky pricks What prate the Palatine. Second that this be a quarantine a what Be me metal a what I not consider And would be swayed by naught but the gods. And As No Man be archetype I flatter no man me idol, Greek or Roman, What be truf and tenor a me current folly For what be most foul ta them Be but me mind’s stink As Pungius’ Tractatus Bombulum scribe “Farts please but their maker” What be but a case a double down on me thoughts. . And third be no recourse a retreat a me honor Nor treaties or truce a theirs, No contract or handshake. For I be a solace out a earshot a those shites As gladly they be free a me prates and japes About the Vicus Platea and Vicus Comici, And what now me audience be crabs and snakes, And me lamps be moonlight And me book, waves what dash the rock. And all this talk o’ertook a me stomach What growls as I be fresh ta peckish exile. Now be sentiment a me temper and a the spartina What hiss and the sea roar What be more a testament a me word Than the whole a the bloody polis As I be but a wrinkle upon the aether What not frequent human ear, Or but two dimensions when three Bespeak me false ta varnish me survival. A barren insula be a cynic’s tableau. What a tub berth the flesh A gentle hillock be me final ceil And I be king What bear orbit a me own crown. __________ Canus compares his plight to that of the Greek hero, Philotectes . What so?! The plutocrats disguise it a quarantine As I be ta abase the air like Philoctetes What me mouf be foot to foul rupture What shape me breaf a fouler thoughts And words what gentle coaxed be ample Over despite and claims a me perdition. What wound the archer and I suffer common As occlude as me foot be free But what say these be swaddled in me mouf. And what pus but the hiss and spittle a me despair. I not be on the blab. Wise Asclepius hisself Dropped outta his dead muvver what be shanked Taint ta bowel. He spill out wif her chitlins, du’n he now, And be caught in a pisspot Saved be he by biles’ cure Such that yet no more earnest healer A wounds and rheums there be. Not Hippocrates what fathered the asp itself What slither up a barber’s pole What these be any pedagogue’s staff. And none shy a Aristoteles declare him ‘great’ What be abide not be confound Wif the great beasts and winds Or the great thems what pave a field wif corpses What already be tilled a their paps and nunks, There begets and their begats. Or sage Callicroton and His prohibitions a stumblin’ donkeys, And clear fountain water What preserve a man as good as a pint, And to speak ill not a that man Though wif Lord Barley he but stumble Ere a donkey’s foot be forestalled. Yeah, speak ill a no man his honks and brays And there but man be donkey and donkey man But as me betters what quarantine me tongue Be hoof ta stomp and kick. And said Serapion what bore Hippocrates be a fraud. And Pausanius what be Empedocles ginger What On Nature be as natural as its time’s tellin’. And let blame fall upon no man What say this account be brute and redact What Jesus what say be infinite wisdom saw fit Ta void the papyri babel a Alexandria As pyro be the purgation most immortal and tendered by his ilk What see healin’ by herb and suture and knife A bit rube and common What appear layin’ on a hands And incant in the guinea tongue and such Be most rare and occult So’s worvy a da fee. And what blame the Christian lord what scorch The books a Peseshet and Merit Ptah, Egypt cunnie what school the midwives Where hirsute man behind wooden dockets Be provident a deliverance And a masih’s omniscience be made spittoon Whipped and beat and hanged a his own intent What power be ta rule out any other mystery. And what this Philoctectes be stink foot By gore and pus upon the cess What cause rags be harbored at the nose. So be I a sort, But they be wax and rags upon the ears What oar passed me? And the stench be that a Hipponax Though me art cast nay a thought a Hades And not one sir hanged But many portly purses As Pluto be stride the polis And fickle Tyche there too ta abide While I be cast upon this feral shore What not hanged be me crown’s share a fortune. For well I know, pigs finish what the dogs don’t do. If this be quarantine where be me sores and nubs But the blows me escorts rain. Where be me cough But dragged, a lead rope about me neck. The rheum and lesions About me boxed and bloodied mouf. Me fever but for their poultice a crimson iron. This be exile clear what false lazaretto Be those what cherish me swipes bid tears And fond ado’s as me netherparts rot. Thus the good becomes bawd and the bawd myf And even a knobby myf warrant a tear and a toast Even a that toke be taken A some bunter a Bow Bells. _______ Canus further bemoans his exile and denies putting fatal spells on prominent Romans So’s I suspect not quarantine but mean exile At the brass a me betters what I be snufflin’ about Those what by mere sinecure ‘sposed to cork me mouf Wif bread and barley. Exile be reserved a bit a stature and station Aforesaid likes a Hipponax and most lovely Agrippa. I must be a right burr under the saddle Ta be cast wif the likes a Ovidius or Marius or Vernacchio, Or proud Orestes, or Marius or Spartacus and his Cohorts a escaped cons. Me what sought not damage a human soul But for naught but the good graces a the whole. Nor exile for me estate what be a pisspot for roof In what me wash me cabbage and yams. Thus must me disease be sized lower than a leper. I be short. Does this not portend a rodent like nature? And bald conveying a pate most slippery Adorned wif a scheming dew And rivulets a calculatin’ bile. And thin as the worm in me stool At his candy ere the grave. I be no Agrippa What banish be at an Emperor’s strike But to reappear like this wank Jesus precise, Wif resurrect be one twin Thoma Sold into slavery by his masih bruvver, What Agrippa’s slave Clemens be his second comin’ Sorted out quite by nails and transom What some give up the teachers A saviors and spirits and all what hew ta such frauds. Or Metellus, liar and cheat, a fuckin’ fief adored by the citizenry Such as they what be not in service or breach or bofe, So’s a democrat might blush at soup set before by such. And he ta exile what not expel Appuleius A Marius’s clique in turn ta be packed off ta Rhodes. Even noble Cicero what be brought low By a blasphemer as he be not so aloof And hard ta tether As the holier than thou fucks and shites he defend. But what be this ta me in such desolation Much less the listener feel deserted by sense or meanin’ Besides all but Agrippa returned in triumph And so I what crawl up a bow line and hide among sacks a meal May ‘bout me own way do the same. I suspect we all feel a bit a Socrates, Wronged and in all the world to be wronged So a neck bespeak an island and its waters a noose. Mind ya, I not diddle the minnows like our dear Tiberius Or be instruct a bofe Plato and Plato’s bung I likes me puss well past the due date And a due discount for da trade. And not much about so’s I be a bit cordial Wif warm sand and ripe fruit. Like Odysseus forbear a all a us. Moved ta Shag a sow and the sow’s mistress And flingin’ his crew like altoids ta Neptune and his minions. Be it as they say, good arise a me ‘quarantine’ Though none I know be infected a me stench Whevver a thought or rot. I mean there do be me public howlin’ ‘Bout blotto money owed And that skit what I wrote, Played down the Bijou ‘Bout a fraud a Ovidius by one Vilis Maximus What owes me a few piasters for a mended fence. But no Midas, this Vilis what court a sack a gold By name a Tullia, Cicero’s daughter no less, What elude the lech for she be smit by a Gallic boxer. But no hangman be I, What be a his own hand debts a dice And spreadin’ the broads and bettin’ the prads That by his own hand what not me words Be his Sonny Boy. Take Locusta, the same what poisoned Britannicas and a thousand, What I share a daffy at behest a Lucullus An apertif what advents a bellows a me guts, Farts ta make her footman declare a holiday And bleed and burn a goat While me mids twist and contort in pain. Lucullus bid ta make a me a Socrates sure. So I tol’ this tale in the style of Plautus A royal shit all tragic over his vineyard What grapes be the horse’s piss His business what turn literal sour, And certain the seasons be dry and his grapes pucker As what was once ta make the maids lips so. But that be chance as his bath be red. And Locusta? Nero begged death a his secretary, And Galba order Locusta be mounted by Jove What on said eve fancied hisself a giraffe. I be happenstance a these deaths As ta put me pen down be me own. What me grunts and gripes be so smeared ubiquite That Hannibal and Dido be abashed For no Socrates be I what drive his angry inch into the bums A Athens privileged snipes Whilst a ten penny nail into their heads. Or Archimedes a dozen fortnights betwixt baths What by the orbit a his filth gauge mass What be the heft a his rank, Sicilian ass. Aye, as when Hercules cleaned the Augean stalls By his labor he foresaw a demigod’s pedestal. Be countenanced we a the fallen Democritus or Leucippus What say atoms by all account rough out a world. Say we Newton’s Moses, this Mochus, What wif knots and beads come forth Ta count his tribe back to Eden? Blind ta the touch these ‘nonymous things. Dark. As mankind be a most desperate lot What confound heaven with his confound thought. Be but digits and stones after the fall To account a heaven, a garden, or an atom at all. Or Aristoteles what gazin’ upon the Parthenon Mutters all Nature be but flutes and gutters. Or Ptolomaeus observe our dear earf be at the core a t’ought What wif Galileo came ta naught And naught for naught what bein’our Great Chain And the wee atomic world unseen What confect man at the center Of a Cosmic Anthropic Principality, A benightedy reduct a our slink Machiavelli. What I tol’ me betters what curry Be the bloke a letters. And if the polis I so offend Upon me sloth and drift they must size again. For what in idleness be a threat Na more ta bet upon this Favel Than ta incur through this phantom race a debt. And dun I say freat for threat and muvver for mother Such lack a discernment be ta exile me As likes a me be ta be like any other. More cursed than I be exiled wif canards a quarantine Not that postures do not afflict, And what so ill suit so many Where once the imposture dispense wif the critic Wif circuses and combats where The vox populi howl for his entrails Be dragged about the dirt arena, Wif the truf be left to rot in place Under the floating spheres’ dolce carmina. And the sun rises and sets. The stars shift and shape. A crib toy of a some Gargantuan race. The ironic topiary of some occult force. And me be but a speck what tumble in space And come ta rest upon this shore By iron and oar chanced upon this place. ___________ Canus the Dog barks his Cynic’s pedigree Sage Sagacius be me guide, Same what be prentice a him What sniff the clotted flanks a the Sinopean Dog. A flightless pupa behind an aromatic pedagogue . For by such extremes what cheek be Aristoteles and Ovid Wif they’s monads a smoove and rough. I ask, be the master’s rank but creamy stool The stuff what consort a ragged molecule? What by compare a his master’s stench A field of rotted corpses be but a single rose Where a Arawat a roses be not consequent a the nose. Me said master, the aforementioned Sagacious What trace the fall a man by the toke a What the bugger took tool to hand. The prosthetic of a hammer or trowel Where no handicap be manifest before, What mates by naught a proximity or emptiness What once by Eden now by need becomes a chore. But what oceans and planets do transgress Require but angstroms, na more, to spud the well of loneliness. What buggered cripples be us all Wif false appendage a ear and eye and leg, A poon and paw and pelf and pud. What? Be next Hephaistos at his forge beget a bronze savant Displeased be he with what his banished ball sack made? And counter many a vain inventor what in himself Be fractious toward creation And envy to be proxy a creation itself. What, god’s Adam be but a widget. Or credit Hephaistos his two gold concubines Or giant Talus’ his ironic embrace. Be the forge our home and hearth. A Brownian careen what cannot ken bit ta bit What iterate a masque to crib an ape’s. To say to be not like me is to be unlikely. Ockham’s razor what ungentle reaps fur from flesh And the acreage so mowed be reasoned bare a art. What truth be merely bald While shaggy wit tack bile wif guile And regard truth, bald hirsute as truth befit? Hera banished Hephaistos to Lemnos isle. For shriveled foot and unfavored face What augered rank Philoctetes a such a place. And now me be grant a lame hideous beast, Eden’s last cankered so What I be first a some new race. Some seer reality what prophet a happenstance Though quite sure of foot as it be whole Follow gods and heroes so entailed What me name be of no repute but for bit a ill Bouyed only by the pedigree of me punishment. Does isolate art like a beast adapt when confined so. Commerce wif the pain a Cassandra Conjure me potion a Hipponax. Does this not speak a husband a Polis As it be an oxen a none other? Who in the Senatus would smell a Cicero in me Unbanished not be the humble banished from thought? Removed by force as be any Epicurean by desire Disposed as ta what pols and partisan in error conceive As be that what I despise What I love as want by any a Gaia’s brood As the Tiber be ta choke Ostia Like the flux what rose upon Willie’s wild Ethiop Jealousy, rage, pride, all the offspring a love And wif what knowledge peace be recompense What stay vengeance no more than a lamb. Thus I be heaven’s kernel but by me own propose What not shun pedigree as a none be me bred. ____________ Canus recalls his old orange hirsute friend, Velius Cesinus Dim grows light’s accord and pitiable Erebus descends And swells the cries a the beasts therein. Such agony pervades the night. Chaos such That all malevolence is unleashed As free to roam as the monsters That herein concealed make their home. Fearful I recall one who must thrive. Withal an hairy man ta shame Esau. Shag the color a rust and naked, hirsute foot to pate Palms bare, black padded feet unshod, And fingers long, more four hands than two From a distant isle wise Pausanius knew. A satyr so randy Philo kept his ward in chains Lest he propagate his race amongst the county’s cooze And evince they swing among the trees As it be but a knotted rope gird about a branching larch. But no, no tail as be Pliny’s wont And just a beastly wee chut What be bare a snug bit a any cunt. This shaggy man, what be called Velius, Silent, forlorn in his gaze But what be an occasional grunt or howl at his lot, What I suspect he be a Budai sect What joys possessed be long a duress, A good mate and lovin’ what no ovver than Strabo relates Such a creature torched hisself At the mere sight a the Greeks. And all a Athens for a moment was slack wif awe At blackened bloke what saw no honor in it. And Velius thus for flingin’ shite and bitin’ slaves Be removed to a cage Furnished wif a rug what be the skin of a lion, Goblets and plates, two fine tunics and chairs A what me friend cared naught, Hurling the wares, breakin’ furnishin’s, strippin’ the drapes And whirlin’ about in their ripple and folds. Shite all about, Velius wrapped in a mangy mat Shunnin’ all mortal things as a Budai is want. Better what he be bathin’ in the atrium and What stink a his bladder and rotten pomegranate. _____________ Ictus and Velius attend the games at the behest of Marcus Licinius Crassus, the richest man in Rome, And Pater Familias of AurumHomoSaccos And bofe distal for don’t Velius be all alien kinks and pranks And me, his dear Canus be crank and imperial burr. On circus days be privy we a Licinius’s box Wif his menagerie a charming twinks and monstrums What be ta the mobs delect. And what me wif these But me book bedwarfed by Lici’s freak counsel Pumilius, Deride. D’un he? Me wif his base japes and pranks. Velius in his lion’s rag, Foreswore mounds a grapes and figs, Grim silent upon the slaughter a the beasts A what drunk wif blood all Rome marvel. Will not perforce but so candied in death’s taint, Rule a wealth be not suasion but coax a savage will. Indeed so many butchered beasts by our guinea elite What need I fear these dark woods about After what surpassing terror contrive a those arenas? More the brutes fear me me Dionysian stink. Lici at some twink’s bung Above the arena’s blood and dung. Be we deny Nature her vengeance? Hold her ill if torn by claw and fang. And Velius rock and moan After such as they be his own, What entrails litter the sand To be cooked in stalls And consumed about the coliseum walls. This killin’ in the theater be ta mock the hunt What be enough a blood labors wif nets and hooks What not ta mock courage But ta stock this mockery a blood wif blood. Nature what be unfaced wif a masque, Urged by point a pilum onto the sand. And as Licinius does violence a nature, He does double, nay treble or ten-fold a man, What Cacus doth reign, What by gold or spice or mere paper Be undone. Lent at rates what Licinius fix Beyond the fruits the land will bare Or sweat a brow a any honest work There be but unpaid rent Where a his counsel seize any object a the fruits a labor Whereupon that labor be spent, And the land, or tools or hostelry be turned back. Or have his agents burn a tenement What be no Stata Mater, The blighted landlord accept denariis pro pupa And Crassus’s peculium a 500 slaves Rebuild on the cheap as it be the public weal Ta be huzzahed and favored by the people For pageants a slaughter, some blood, some pantomime, Some by mere writ and courts, Any tort or raid or murder what lets the world as an arena. ______________ Velius and Canus are invited to a feast at Apicius’s table, The Empire’s richest and most renowned gourmand And Velius and I what be buskin’ about the Empire come upon Minturnæ, a city a Campania renown a its puddings, Me lanky friend mentoring wealfy twats in his cryptic gymnos Wif its gangles and jerky gawks, What by gossip he get an invite a Apicius This Apicius be bloke what spent such a fortune on his belly No less Athenaeus what be a bit of a gourmand hisself take note, Bein’ his Deipnosophistae or what be known ta likes a yous, The Chop House Socrates Be it a fugitive’s beacon ta many a good feed. This Apicius wif a table what surpass all sense Though sense be victuals’ very portal. What smell and taste, and some much a sight and touch Gather the huzzahs a the guests. And me wif me Bodai friend attend Though care I not for such luxury But have not the luxury ta offend the gods. Ta fail ta account be me host’s lean and bias What I place no value be ta vex Empanda Whose soup kitchen on the Capitoline See me often pack me bony glutes, Hunger what urge us on Like the Sabine regs up Saturnine Hill And what be ta me person what for the likes a Apicius To curb creed for food, Though this sense aright provision me solitude By its nulling power ta give offense Though at a great distance do loom its berm. Like Eumolpus what by Encolpius’ grace Be at bath and table at Trimalchio’s place. And such be it as at the time of Nero or Heliogabalus What Apicius cook, Batalius, be so coveted What sacks a riches or a sack upon his head Be oft employed to evince his service. What that he were a such proportion what be moved Pullied and levered about the Pyrenees Or by girth hoist the planet like a instrument a sage Archimedes Not some gluttonous mogul and his earthly baggage. He be learned a Flaius and Glaucus, Diocles and Gordianus what for the Mobius pretzel He be reknown and thereby a much wealf abide. As one might expect of a any large snake, An army marches on its belly. And thus an empire brings the world ta such As what bake a juicy kidney or oft baste a brace a doves Savored in melted swine’s fat, Be held aloft a Caesar What command one’s own estate and slaves. Thus chefs be heroes what salt a Minatour or boil the Nemean Lion And their pans glint what they be shields What the kidney’s and sweet breads a giants fry in. Or a general bivouacked before his cooking fire Wif his enemies a brace of hares turned slowly upon their pyre. And his own Incitatus what be dined on golden barley, Draped in purple blankets and a collar of precious stones And when his derby days be foregone Our equine heroes seasoned wif with garlic and garum Become the stuff a myth On crackers, diced to a gourmand’s tartar. Say sage Apicius ‘the gastronomer be artist, Metaphysican. philosopher, argonaut’ What as we all know such gents Constant be at bouts wif all manner a A kettles and ovens and sharp and cunning implements. And Apicius’s table be heavy wif gold plates Raised wif reliefs a huntin’ scenes a the goddess, Diana, Her bow, her quiver and arrows, her bare breast and muff, What the juice runnel a many a goddesses twat and And boar grease clot the thighs a heroes. And presently a fine ragout a ostrich brains and bacon. Eggs boiled in buzzards’ urine, boiled parrot, And a cold porridge a larks’ tongues and leeks. Rice seasoned wif pearls and garum, Honeyed mice with sesame on toast, deep fried ficedula, And eels corpulent wif the flesh a Christians, And a bear what that very noon Dined on a counterfeiter and a solicitor. A roast sow and six sucklings sewn into a poached python. Stewed Hippo hooves wif garlic, marsh grass and garum. The boiled septums of a dozen Lucanian Cows Baffled on ivory pikes. And smoked camel heels. Flanks and organs a five giraffes Scorched over an open pit. Sows wombs in brine and the pickled eyes a the striges What nocturnal omen be balked in fish sauce and clam bukkake, Where Pyriphlegethon coils in the belly and erupts a the AM What Vulcan musta ate before napping under Vesuvius. ______________ Note: Marginalia believed to be in the hand of the transcriber of the Ictus text itself, Father Rastus, appears at this point in the margins. It depicts the monastery’s abbot, Padre Carlo de Porcaro, seated before a large ornate table straining under a mountain of braised game birds while the prelate gnaws on a stork’s leg and swills wine from a gold goblet. Under the table a young monk can be see performing fellatio on the abbot as he eats. Above the abbot’s head can be seen a cross with an emaciated Christ drooping down from it like warm sealing wax. An inscription above reads, “In your name.” ______________ Velius suffers a bout of indigestion and shits in his host’s wine goblet Contrary much ta agita Velius Cesinus inclines What he sit erect and brood and mull Wif his hands cupped up what he be a beggar What his thumb oppose as be a teacup A transit what be most exposed. For he by Bodai riddle know If guinea meet the master on the road He dispatch such wif knowledge a Bodai say so or no. Most likely ‘no’ for such be guinea sport. And what opulence be ta a beggar Bodai What live on the aefer While a Christian live on the scraps a his masih’s bung. And our cynic? He be upturned in a prelate’s bin. But Bodai do profane as he be what spoon wif celebrity. And Christians con the rich and poor alike Wif palavers a afterlife what not sport The heart nor soul a any holy bloke’s Epicurean delight But by inconstant promises and foretokenin’s, Where but obstinate and contrary the cynic be. His riddles not dodge or glance at truf but air it inside out. Still me Velius need relief but by guinea custom What exit the table be naught as grief and censure upon the host. So Velius’s guts slosh wif meat and wine Be it ta ape by grunt and growl an Affluvian tumbler A lime and gravel, water and clay. He what defrutum and spiced pears make a soupy mix. So after much grumble and intestine dismay, The gates a Acratopotes burst away, And Velius drops a deuce in Apicius’s cup A rather fulsome load I must say. As our hirsute harpy from the rafters swings What be his gangly limbs as they be wings And spew afore and shite behind He spin as a pinwheel about its axis as Aloft a buffet a few what cater equal to What cranky Zeus put on display. The same what befouled wif Snatcher shite Taked the breaf a blinded Phineus away A bloke what saw much and jabbered more By what Argonauts be return ta the Thessalian shore. Or awful coils, winding ziggurats a filf what Scatalogus ascribes, Titan stool still steaming at the brink Noxious such stink what knock the Harpies from the sky And gack wif foul excrement What be a foul frescoed Sodom’s slutty cultae, Our dear Pompeii. Vesuvio rear his arse What the Plinys regard from across the bay And wiser than his uncle, The nephew demurred and stayed away For the Younger heed the words a sage Loquatious what say, “Objects fall what seek their lawful destiny” And far be it such a promisin’ augur As fledge Pliny stand in Decima’s way. For Pluto broil a right spicy buffet What as wise Varro say Vulcan’s one-eyed minions Devour in stews, casseroles and cakes Laced apparent wif ghost peppers and onions Such be the souls a what depart dispense What be a nosey foretaste before we cast ‘em inta holes. As wise Scatalogus prescribe, At birf we be but a honeyed goose, What ripe rejoice the leavin’s What exit our Jordan bound caboose. As be our Gallic Queen Gargamelle Once relieved a vat a its tripe stew Want the more be shed a her babe, Gargntua, her wailing, wanton heir Who desperate a drink deposit from his queen mum’s ear What her bum plugged so severe it occlude her cooch Wif herbs a some drunken midwife An ironic cork what keep our Sprig from his hooch. _____________ Canus discusses the influence of exotic customs And in defense some such austere and lawful minds say, Perhaps, now remain upon me train, perhaps, In Velius’s native land from what he be reft by hunger and storm. So stripped and torn a proper custom and far away What prescribe the guest seek the host’s goblet And joy a such comity doth toilet his delight As the house’s master might, nay, has presented this very night. For many a custom be ta Roman foul What be fair a his guest and clash nay more than foreign fare As it be ta tax the acids and biles of an emissary’s gut. Doth not the Imperium Rome recoil a Nazarite folly What gnaw the bloody gore a their jinn And swill his blood in Bacchic fury. Or Semite what trim the tarp from their pricks. And yogis what swill fresh urine From the morning wood a their masters. Tutor Galleanus at his dear wife Cornelia’s bitsy spout Tutelage a sage Plotinus. And don’t Aristaeus suffer the aroma Of a fuller’s shop but ta be resurrect By counsel a the same’s fumes. This Preconnesus what seven years dead The Arimaspi writ in a Bacchic fury, What lost be bof ta Roman eyes as two be one And such be Plotinus one be all As one be heno and heno be Greek, And ordain the Aramaspi and the sons of Uranus Samadhi bodi what false eyes be solved behind the true. Or Aurelian what be saltin’ his couscous and so ire Queen Zenobia’s cook that there be words, and a siege What end when spit and chaff be Palmyra’s daily lot. For what be custom but ta rube our senses. As we delight a the Manchus what fellate their newbies Or the Berbers what launch sticky loogies a their bambinae What bof kinks pale a the mothers a Seres What gnaw the raw bloodsack What us wee ubus abdicate. What Hindi hang a their flesh What same hooks be a meat in a market What fettered and helpless be a power endowed. And d’un dis have the faint ring a the dog? Or dem blue men a Brittania in their skinnies What fashion a effigy a wicker bound about Some hapless guinea munifex What be born below Fortuna’s rank What she be moanin and clawin’ the buttocks a King Servius What build a shrine a her anonymous incarnations. What when Seres ambassador find foul Caracalla’s baths As much the emperor detect the nuncio’s need a one. And wars be fought a alien stinks and smells The Punic what be fought over offense a Hannibal’s cologne What upon his fall be the rage a Rome. Or ancient Troy what be fought upon what aroma Best suit beauty’s twat Ta what odorous beauty be in a hero’s rot. Or the Peloponnesus what long peace be Reft a Samos what embrace the stink of a alien satrap. And a times custom bring comfort and comfort bring war And alien comfort become custom what bring conflict before. __________________ Note: At this point in the text a rather long anonymous marginalia reads: Much inquisition be made a the origins a this Velius Cesinus. Pliny writeth he be a the Isle Taprobane and that the inhabitants be so much desirous a the hot chilis there, their red coats burn ta the touch on account a the many peppers they consume. And Seneca attributes the ludeness a Roman women ta the propensity a nakedness and wantonness of this people though there be little evidence that this “hirsute race” be about Rome in any great numbers nor be a particular promiscuity there what Rome already be a quite randy and bawdy cess. Herodotus who calls these, Pilosus Sapinus, claims their unusually long and muscular arms have allowed them to climb up roots at the outer edge of the world and work their way inland and that one day the Empire will be overrun with these curious, hairy men. Strabo however speaks of ‘crassus cultus deo’ and describes this very Velius Cesinus as a citizen a Seres and worshiper of an obese Bodai that dwells there. I believe it be but a red ape what I saw at the fair. ____________ Velius valiantly battles Apicius’s warrior chefs But here in medias res we take up, dear friend, Ta witness our hirsute hero stave off a bloody end. Though end doth be what doth provoke What our Bodai’s belly be overcome By ten dozen half-digested roasted rats Stuffed ta the guts wif raw jellyfish off the Amalfi Coast What by our hairy Bodai’s antic joke What a his homeland be But humorous custom a these exotic blokes. For our monk Velius about the rafters swung What Apicius’s Battalion the Chefs wif sharp instruments stung. But as be famed Odysseus or Pantera Such be our Bodai hero wif much aplumb Pluck the darts from his shaggy bum As the barbs be but a fey infest a plump chiggers or mites And at the guard their very own missiles flung, Slaughterin’ hundreds a sous and sommeliers Ta our host’s dismay And in the chaos Velius and me made our fuckin’ getaway. And if this above bit be a bit sing/song It be ta mimic the high wire swing and sway and Bear witness ta the fidelity a Velius’s tosses What for fear a Buddha I dare not abase Nor repay wif curses our host for his losses. As cunning Linguinus in his Transiens ad Fluvium Styx ascribe The world be paupered and the cosmos allayed When thought be forced frough Spartan rhyme Gallantry led about by the broach a sounds in common What be honk or sneeze or grunt whatever, How now ‘brown cow’ or some thing far less clever What follow the stink a whatever the last mouth fart sounds Be what by habit and worn flux we misplay What direct the orbits a the stars Much less the private rebellions a our words. And by such repute poesy be less than better wif thought For by love and death, death favored Wif naught but love by little else wrought, What give the world back its hymen, its cherry sound Though the vessel be corrupted A the heart and soul a pus and bile The villain’s rhyme be like honey What rank blood doth trickle down So that seeming either the world or the verse be false, Poesy be seen as naught but a pretty conceit or worse, Weak and fey unto its subject’s discourse, Where the world swipe its nouns and vowels, Its colon’s and its commas What rhyme naught accord but rank sentiment Ta leaden hypocrisy and bloody traumas As be this last sad stanza’s lineament. What Apicius’s belly be his bastion His cooks served as his armed retinue, What by the Bodai’s hand All about the ravaged banquet hall lie dead All stout chefs at arms scattered among the bits and parts Of a goodly number of guests. Total be there ten thousand in all. Gutted, trimmed, beheaded, tripe hanging out, Carnage not unlike the planks a food knocked about. All manner a meat be tossed a this mortal stew Fish, flesh and fowl and a fat sous chef or two. And there be Cabezeus Principio kaput What served no less poached crocodiles’ croquets Ta Gaius Caligula and his feckless retinue. And what lay beside in a pool a blood a either swine or swain Such mingled be this corporeal goo Be the sommelier, Micturio Fetinus, Ferried home be he a Charon’s happy crew. And Caseus Perdomai, the same what Cicero dub ‘Scent of a Nation’ And furious Crusti Calidius, what be called Hot Stone By us local boffs, their flesh trimmed ta the bone. And so Plano Superfecius, Coquis Epichysus, Cochleari Magnini, Nuxi Buccelli, Testiculi Ulsus, Pedesi Scissos, Ventrui Effercio, Sapidui Bulbi, and Maxillus Pingui. And young Scullerius, and stout Quisquilius. And what in deaf still clean a spirit be Socci Mundi, What lyric be a Fastididos’ fame, And our pup Brevio Braca what life be cut short a his trousers. And the grind stones a Humero Porcino What be our Sisyphus a the cutlets and filets, Such be the bolden appetite’s a his betters What in the Empire’s vomitoriums spew What it be beyond Creation ta renew. Farciminius Chorda a Domus a Chorda Intestini What doubtless dutiful pinch and tied his mark, What by dictum must issue a bit shy a Nero’s schvantz For what our emperors prove desultory a the arts But for what art be stone and what stone be But a mug a slow grimace blank wif the Lethe Floating upon a drowsy omniscience. So art what foster life be attenuate in war Though words be but tools or promissories, Donkeys conveying multiple meanings Where pure but one be present before And warriors’ absolution diluted What the cook kettles leach defrutum Wif lead what hex Bacchus’s wine wif madness And art be confound a wealth and war And his thyrsus wound about in ivy And dripping sweet honey what the equestrian arts be money And money Ovidian what shift Telos if not form, Power what by oligarchs be well-served. And Minerva though she be born a the crown a Zeus A shield and spear what a trade and war Though emblazoned wif the Gorgon, Her art be but a camp follower and wisdom a pack mule, For even the gods cannot forestall a war profiteer. So what be I what sole be quarantined Be I a such value abandoned on a beach Safe from the Consuls, Senatus and their Plutonic reach Ta preserve some custom, some hidden value What by Rome’s disease be lost. Be I ta catalogue, scribe here in solitude at little cost Not spend a god’s fortune in sacrifice But a copper’s chance at dross. They be desperate me a the mind say Wif growing hunger a this desole plot. Comic what a kitchen be an arena What wif a helmet and strap be a handle and pot. And pugios be a butcher’s knife, And breastplate what be the goose’s oven. What slaughter a 1000 beasts What a thousand smoky stalls About the thundering stadium’s walls What serve up the meat a some exotic brute. Or parts fetched of a Christian or two Be served up on the tailgate a some wagon’s stew? What fat be a some slave or eunuch Or gristle be a sinew a some Syriacan Jew What die or conscript ta be a gladiator, What masque the step what affront in the arena What it be ta be a warrior, Weary, cold, fever, maggots a the meal and far a home, What life and deaf some fit circus mug be A Janus Hoax. But the Carmentae’s gratuity. ________________ Canus the Cynic So’s sure I vent spleen and rash prate the stage. What be I Varus wif a capon’s head? Arrogant simpleton what neck be rung at Teutoburg And our sons dead among the fens and swamps. What be I but ta nash and rail at such folly What alert me meaning pan me before their jingos What be owned by circuses, baths and bread. This be me quarantine, and me exile. Me faif like the Vestales be unbreached even as the terror A their mocked and mocking gods be a no relief, For mock what god does not honor sacrifice And sacrifice be not belief as it be mocked What those wif eyes call fickle, fickle ta fancy What ta place fate upon a pyre And look day ta day as a torch What be a premise a false desire And dangers what by the number arts Prove misery cannot be prayed away. This be as a clear pool ta me and clean ta drink What me betters render and foul and noxious stink And cast me out upon this load a dirt what I be saved A what forbodes a Rome a tidal wave what sweeps all aside And the Seven Hills be but watery keeps A some Hebrew flood of a purer god Rome’s crimes doth aggrieve. And mock they do wif me mere comfits a war. And true me condiments be poor. Stage lights for campfires, standards scribbled on paper, Swords forged a pine. Combat what be but wrangling Dis for scraps a words And like clown Bodai Velius the mob hurl they’s turds And what shout “Bugger your wit. You be not blood, you be not in ‘the shit’ What be our abashment, our rout, our discomfit Wif rage tear down your stage What mortify our more worvy comfit.” What know yet take once the barbarian’s blow And twice the states what for cold affection they doth go. Or wars simple stratagems be much a ambush Like some jilted paramour what her hands taketh light What a the dark wood whisper ‘guess who’ And by glint a steel and moonlight level the score. What so mocked need panic I. What be me cautions a those what covert intention be ta die And inverse what be but a me a learned warning More thrust themselves toward Avernus As by death they prove me wrong and life Theirs’ be but an isle wif a branded Siren’s song. What ask for little be accorded less. And a curious island I be, What walked Rome’s insulae, Beaten, perhaps beaten past sense, as me solicitor claim, By the hoppers what reign blows upon me hovel Same what be me brevren a bloody thrashin’s From our charitable, lovin’ municipality. What be these ta malign them yardies, Elysium’s hods what our Senatus raise up An addled emperor as a god. What from their agents be urge ta malign me. Oh, I not see the scrubbed hand raised out the tunic And by the bolt a clavi I know whence the blow. Me dear Sagacius say “Be somethin’ in the water. An element what cause in ‘uni sum’ What make plebes act that way.” The people’s blow be a weaned and tutored sting A them what knows ta play poverty ta folly. Be it not Sabinus’s granaries what abide me abuse from same What be but chaff what squabble over his empty sacks. What be instruct but contempt for the likes a me A what very phantom chains be I helpless ta set them free As they see freedom ascribe ta beat or ignore the likes a me. And Sabinus curate this brute artifice What pop and bang among the populace And cook and fix what rush frough the veins a their brevren. Be what me be but ta not exist Or so do as a jape, as but a popular artifice Some Juvenal malcontent whose cultural capital’s spent On the snark and smarm of an overweaning wit. But naught be worse than a Cicero or Cato What be a jingo for his betters or class. What me pes be neither a Cossutius or Statilius But a me own sole what urge me pass. ______________ Canus realizes that his new home is an insula comprised entirely of bleached bones Now the crickets be me carping mob What fill wif fledgling chirp the silent din No louder than me loathing. And this ash a camp fires and corvis bones. Be this Philoctetes remnant as I rub and coze the dust. But what as I drowse appear more bones, Millions thrust up from this insula Til sense see this not bespeak a Strabo or Ptolemy Nor rich forage as be Polyphemus’ Sicilia Nor the thick pine forests a Creta, But a Gordian pile of death, infinite in anatomy, Some elk, some deer, some horse, some cow, Some ape, some man, some fish, some fowl. A jumble what send great Alexander into a fit More than what done our Sinope’s wit. Anonymous bones as what be ta compare Ta brave Philoctetes what took ten years repast there. What extort Agamemnon’s enterprise whole Much aggrieved a his exile but possess Heracles quiver and bow What wifout, Helenus prophecy a Greek defeat. But what be a Philoctetes wound that it be so rank What his comrades put a great sea between Their noses and his canker’s stank. Be it a snake bite festers what be by Hera loosed For Philoctetes’ pa Poeas put torch ta Herakles pyre Or the tellin’ he school his boy do the same for History be a whose annals you care ta name. Or Philoctetes be by profane Greeks to plant his foot Upon the ground a which Heracles ash be bound Where the sore upon his heel did moor. Or what fable be afoot Achilles murder King Tenes, Apollo’s son, whereupon the Achaeans Set about the altar’s sacrifice for wrongs done When from the fiery expiation a viper roused a his cool seam And by myth’s import stung hapless Philoctetes, What by men’s ballads and books Has far more wounds than heels. For again as go a tale Philoctetes Peep Apollo’s nymph Chryse air her orchid What merit the Greek another viper upon his marrow What bloodless moderns credit a mere graze From a poison arrow. Could I be moored upon Chryse near echo bound a Lemnos Where the sequestered household a our ripe anchorite be found? For he be not upon these anonymous bones But for the verse a brilliant Sophocles be owned A version whereupon our brave Achaean dies. No god as be his risen benefactor, Herakles, What various ‘came ta the company a gods’ ‘Wif a cloud what buoyed him and Thunder what brought him up ta heaven’, What these feathery Neo-Platons Do a dilute Odysseus, Whereas Theocritus say it from Tiresias ‘The Thracian pyre hold all mortal nature a her son Whereas Herakles be a chosen one’ What mutant Odysseus lack what ten years under sail To win his pots and spindle back. Be I ta succumb but a bone upon bones. What Herakles foster a cure for Philoctetes Among Asclepius’s sons, Machaon and Podalirius What be beseech there be more truf in dual physicians Even one likely dead by Europylus’ hand Than in all of Odysseus reason and rhymes. What more ta attest our superior times. Ta the Stoics Odysseus be virtue; Ta the Epicureans pleasure; Ta the Academics one what does not judge Simply all they might be a themselves But be not For in wif Odyssean omerta Them’s what spout such preachment Be those what intend naught. Such his fortitude be. And his courage. And his honor. What be his not be a doubt. But be him his fables made empty By the world he no doubt bore. For what be he ta Philoctetes, or blameless Polyxena, And Hecuba not spared a mother’s pain By this frigid mouthpiece of raison d’Etat What time delivers from superstition What he once mugged as the insane wagging A the caudal a reason. What may be shades and fancies in Homeris and Socrates Be confound a this Achaean breed What become a most populace vermin What pay oblique homage A our archetype a the cunning swill bucket rat. Cunning animus what valorizes any quantum a denouement As quality itself, what harks back Knowing nothing a the mark upon which it harks, Balked a its only timely measure. There be but two creatures a the night. Them’s what can see in the dark. And them’s what see the dark. And Odysseus be but the former And the former forfeit all but its own. And the latter be as Cassandra And thus for me what me victory bow and darts Be what be scored across me back. What portend a man’s future other than his heart? And in this many proved heartless be. This quality what Sophocles tol’ that Odysseus be not worthy ta snack The maggots from Philoctetes’ canker. Slave be oracle a his master’s mind As Theophastus gaze full upon a periwinkle. Such me Achaeans bring no reprieve and Me arrows loosed upon them Fall short into poetry. ____________ Canus despairs of being rescued No Odysseus seek me As be no sense a me seeking An Odysseus among these what persecute me. Philoctetes be a patriot and warrior as be his mates, As certain I be but a banty rage ta me betters. Me what be not a will or want tutored in war. But them what chains me ta this far insula Be a some far more cunning race Than swat the Achaeans or mine. What be a lip service what first wage war Upon the citizen’s mind What be contrived ta spud in the eagle And splash about in foreign blood. So ta me peace be ta be ignored. What one assuredly less than naught Ta flick a speck a dust But me left in place rather than carry me off. What be me Ovidian moment here amongst these bones What the glyphs they form mock me exile a print, For what about either enterprise be understood? My words no more than snow on tile roofs a Firenze. For naught but bleats and squeaks I be impaled here If not me small frictions ta heat the grease A the mercantile engine a mother lingua Much loved by our doctores and their patrones What be their performance but a séance a mumbles and drones, An Orphic burial desiccate as this insula’s bones. But that the Achaean be most renowned for his lies. Who trust a randy, goat-footed, back water Bacchus name Silenus What accuse our famed Odysseus a pinchin’ Polyphemus’s larder. And some say what be his stories but these Base grif chiseled in relief upon monuments What make heroes a some Sicilian truck What profit in spices and slaves, Such that a sober truf be snuffed out Under the urge of a drunken one. And such be our poets and singers and their great gullets What be deep six in the maelstrom, Resurrect a pishta legend ere the storm pass And rosy fingered dawn wash away the wellyboots and the snatters In a heave a second comin’ a lager and bile. And thus be us all, such it be We tele our Iliad and our Odyssey. Shall I flip and float me tub, bone for oar, Me staff for mast. Me cloak for sail Upon the sea what tide and winds to me home be? Be it home? And be I tried a me journey like the Achaean By me very earf, and water and its monsters What I sudden as a squall be borne as some stranger Ta some strange land as land and sea and earf and air At once a this account be uncommon to us all? What be these Greeks what lose their way in Telos’ puzzles What straight away once be their nature’s flourish? Set adrift all for a few serials and cliffhangers seasonal As Demeter fucked in a furrow by our Iasus. What be more than bored satiety ta set tales astray And a species evil be lauded for sallyin’ forf And cuttin’ down a forest ta pine Upon a wooden gallows about the trees. And what hero be so us cynics For what crooner drone Homer in the thoroughfare And not suppose frough fame and glory expose Odysseus prick in Penelope, a lust what be but equal A honest Crates for his Hipparchia What he ta part her thighs right there in this dust. And besides be Hipparchia ta thought What Penelope be ta wool. What attest Crates chose well. And Odysseus be but a fool. _____________ The Death of Peregrinus Proteus What be Lucian ta mock our Proteus Wif true witness a false aspect. Do not his eyes see what his heart confounds? What Lucian’s puffery claim, us cynics Be as Actaeon’s dogs upon his person What he mock our master’s blazing pyre. We what forsake in god’s name. For what man deliver himself sentient To his funereal pyre. Be it such an easy thing as the smarm a Lucian’s report What ta his distress what make fables a Cynic violence As our smug, lyin’, Assyriac hypocrite require Though there be not bite or scratch Nor any aspect or gauge a our ire As we upon Peregrinus’ fate With Theagenes all our senses concentrate. Yet Lucian by his vile standards Hope by feck and foil ta diminish in death What he ab exemplo diminish in life Ta project upon the good all evil what in him thrives. What Peregrinus rise in esteem among the Christians And even a Lucian say, “How else could it be” And when thus banished it be As Lucian out of jealousy As Proteus Peregrinus birth this new cult of But one certain man hanged in Galilee. Even as Lucian writes that the crowd say he be “The one and only rival a Crates and Diogenes.” Rival? What rival be a Peregrinus a Diogenes or Crates Or nay man but by in cloudy cess a Lucian’s petty ambiguity. And what martyr be not schooled a prison’s middle passage. And what philosopher’s fortune’s turned. Vespasian double-clutched Musonius’ exile be he so revered. And if the revered be fled what for speech fly Ere both be dead. And if Peregrinus be but novel And a high degree what fail him his ingenuity Or the failure be Lucian’s What faithless his epistle be fully present. Herakles burnin’ wif Hydra’s poison Sought relief upon the pyre. What Lucian contra Zeus call no great thing What ta emblazon his words more than fire’s sting. What folly! Who craves fame but Lucian? And what golden idols beset a our Cynics What idols scorned be their scorning What he ere as this Syriac Jesus foreswore. What appurtenance attend Lucian’s imagination “Fearing [he] be crushed in such a throng.” Be his ta envy what find but himself worthy ta adore What care and canned laugh at Peregrinus’ filfy shirt Be of Lucian in his despair? Lucian altogether suspect What echo through his feigned laughter As Proteus, oracle, burns And so too Rome soon after. ______________ Diogenes of Sinope What heir Proteus be a Diogenes What he be buried face down, What sure and soon and wrong and ta what end Be he ta eat the dust he so well loved Yet the grizzled visage a the world still be up. What dog make the magistrate’s quake Or he a Xeniades, his owner, by wisdom his servant make, For what folly beget a rally a those deluded A the last first and first last and Where among the stupid gods no such agent be And but a stick draw off most masihs ta chase As dogs be wont ta fetch. And what be he not so be skull crushed A the same cudgel. And all this talk a the Sinope pissin’ And shittin’ and fornicatin’ in the thoroughfare. What be a loogie what it strike a man’s sandal As no more than a sandal Be ta block the spittle’s rightful descent. Be it ta walk or clear one’s throat What the one that does be a better yew Cause only one task be bested a two. Or a the Sinope’s brown strudel What render all Athens more nimble And spur trade wif Indus for grinded glass. Diogenes scorn be a such extreme That some medium might find audience in between. But in the interim all must be abandoned As early he be exiled for debasin’ the coin What he be ta conform it ta its users what abuse Be perforce brought ta it by their desires. But he na more such accord a civitas What seem it in the manners and customs, Bills of particulars and ordnances, Restraints and whips, but incivility. Men be free as long as They be free ta eat, drink and die That be the pact a the citizenry. ‘Circuses and bread’ go the covenant While Crassus and Claudius and the Kochus frats Tally money well spent. When Crixus boasted a the Pythian games He vanquished men, Diogenes say, ‘Nay, I defeat men, you defeat slaves.’ And a demos what take up threat wif arms What quarrel the wealfy goad and abide. What Homer be ta ridicule a slaughter a nations For a sorry piece a ass. And on and on the gore the heroes fuck no more Where once love’s consent Many a dalliance be spent. And what be utile a our scant and rustic style But pure, unleavened discourse amongst the dogs. What dry cracker and bowl for home be affirmed When Epicurus’s atoms Be but a misplaced desire of omniscience For the 11 fold universe of a sheep’s labia. What wif rebellions in Egypt, Libya, Mauretania And Palestine treasure be lost On swarming mosquitos what collide In the dank shadows a Hadrian’s Wall. And automata what be a singular self-loathing Of Daedalus and Archytas Or the Antikythera gears from Rhodes where Automatae stand Adornin’ every street What seem ta breathe in stone. Or Shift their marble feet There be a twitterin’ boar There a growlin’ parakeet Watch the door mouse roar And feel the lion’s bleat. And there, there a sow doth hiss, While twined vipers kiss. And hot grease gums the metallic teeth A the block and tackle beneath. What be unique of our philosophiam and scientia Be common by its impulse. What this be our nature Be contra awhat nature be. What the man beat, the dog be circumspect. And the man be keen that the dog do bite. _______________ The Last Man on Earth For what be the last man a earf ta speak his tongue Be a fortune wif the first For blows be friend a misunderstandin’ And anger a words what defy query. And this be cynic and Syriac Christian Last and first, for men a breed be short a congenial What threats their sense And torture and torment follow as ta What be the bloke’s meanin’ Be found in his screams and howls. What brute he bellows or screech, thereof be his nature. Thus a me the dog will do. Coulda let me wick burn out for all that suss me. But what be a me certain be a all men But puzzled as a Nature, a god or goddess What tongue be cut out a me What foretell nuffin’ a me tormenters. _______________ Dog Bite Rants Thems? Thems be the patrones a polis What fancy they be Hesiods But a many days and little work. Be seen a bit a alien fancy what not treat ‘em As though one must pierce a heel what them expire So much gold they wield And wield men by gold collar As we a our city be a breed a dog, Servile and fanged at that. And what pittance pay some plebe ta carry his standard A some campaign ta rob Cyrene a their silphium Or plunder Rumanian copper Or rub eyeballs wif Parthia. Fuckin’ blue blood bastards of humanity. A these I run afoul as they be such. For what be ta come upon a rotting corpse in the road And not have thy nose contest it. These what give themselves away What send yardies ta conquer naught but me, What fall a very few blows and curses assure. And d’un I be accursed sure what so untimely A me civil desires and naked trufs me times be. Wealf dress proxy in armor and purchase an epic A deeds unknown ta the gods What the heteroclite wombs of men conceive Lies of the flesh what mock a god’s indulgence And deform truf for prideful fancy. Could they not have halted me siege by Beatin’ til Thanatos eclipse me eyes? Here. Here on this insula ta speak me last is ta breathe it. What requires communion ask not it be not false As this be much as not the god’s afford. But only that falsehood be the single coinage. That raised up lies be advantage ta every circle. That the surgeon maim and the poet bore Ta many laurels as there be breezes ta bow. Let Clodius fuck his sisters. What there be a ring of Augustan about him. Let him confirm he be Fonteius’s bastard and a plebe And thicken the broth a the Falcidia Lex. Let him doodle the Aenead in his own shite a the Cloaca Maxima What attribute ta one Publius Clodius Pulcher In his noblest patrician scrawl What it be the mere cowl of a plebeian prick. Did not our dear Clodius slip on a skirt Ta bear witness ta us cuckolds a Lesbia a the Bona Dea? And, for good measure, pound Pompeia from behind What before hinted but the sweaty siege A Caesar’s short sword upon such a grand citadel. Is not Clodius favored by the populae What only by craft and writ he be thereof? Hail Clodius and his Leges if it bring Cicero to an insula’s fate Or least what lack Pella’s cushions and victuals thereabout Hail Clodius! For what be a vaccine a our litters For what be a Clodius but a pox upon a pox. ______________ Canus discourses on begging and the bad name Empire Has given buggery And Augustan what many be worvy a his prick. But precious few his prick AND his name. Be not the requisite lie what stir concourse What the whole a civility now be but a pack a lies and Cutthroat code what fill the courts And markets wif “I be fucked by Caelinus, me solicitor” and What’s more “I be fucked in me ass By me landlord, Quintus,” What words divert desire ta unholy things. And Trebonius wif a thousand slaves ta work his vineyards, And a thousand more a Seleucia and Illyria what toil His fields a Cilician sorghum and wheat. This Trebonius, what holds a 50 year note a Carfage And copper mines a Britannia, and gold a Gaul. And contract ta mend bof the Segovian and Hadrian aqueducts. But not a denari ta games or bread For his service, it be a war debt By the state ta him What affords he buy a consul’s ear As it be naught but a mealy crustulam. And what Caesar reward his partisans Trebonius be one a 60 what takes a late shank a the king. And thus Empire give buggery a bad name As certain as drunkenness to drink. What hereupon sober I wake wifout the market’s curse A me ears as what I lay about among the commerce Appealin’ a crumb from me dusty vantage Wif a most spare a gesture and concise plea. No evil’s course for what sin be here a this insula There be no buggery in a beggary a bones. And no prospect as ta rely upon me self Be ta lie ta meself about me prospect And thus neither rub be ta self-congratulate me desires Among dreams a pockets and gloves and purses and Cod pieces, mellons, and ovver tender scabbards. The nightingale be not false, nor the sparrow But me whereabouts show little fortune Unless starvation be such and so linked Such as doth the starling sing “There be the prospect he starve.” Certain as I the Dog need little But sure me corpse need naught. What the city fathers can’t urge, me belly can. What be Lucan or Virgil here Or even Hesiod’s didact in this matter? What be I ta find Diana pool side wif soapy frof, Her bow and quiver reclined upon the bank, Fresh from the hunt, nymphs attending What appear a the season’s celestial ritual Be a our more immediate cosmos, A boar cranked upon a spit. What I sooner be Actaeon Consumed by ravenous dogs. Me what seek to be as they, And what Ovidius rain a torrent a hounds what be Archbrow, Bubbly-Jock, Curmutt, Topturd, Hoof’nmuff, Nag, Pokejam, Malamutt, and Caneyegetanomen. Buggytoe, Beaverburn, Splayfoot, Pigpug, Scumnippers, Praise the Hunt, Impertinax, Congestus, Stink Out, Funky Harrow, Scoff Badger, Mincemeat, Prick’npuss, Swine Harrow, Porklap, Dick’nmepud, Eagle Foot, Fox Bite, Smutty Paw, Cat Mullet, Shitty Shank, Thumb Nose, Stink Up, Bait Bear, Damp Flank, Tater Twat, and Hare Foot And Sedulus, Carnie Barker, Duck Lips, Zwoosh and Quackamolay Cerberus, Harpalus, Credulus and Creampie. The whole bloody kennel. What the Jew Elijah be a service and wield a me many arms Ta flail and/or feed the godly mutts As he done wif loaves and fishes And what be sparrows about the market That be peckish ta clean a purse or two. Or some Hindi goddess wif dem many arms like scythes. Or da many legs what be birf a Minos spooge’ Ta sate a worthy mongrel’s deliverance a me Ta me proper phylum or stay their hunger Lest I crawl in a hole or voided stump ta tarry and abide. For upon these nights a stump routs the stars In its purpose For what abode be cranking celestial lights What back home I blot wif a tub Such be them ta me. And certain about be berries and mussels on the rocks And what the sea cast up wif fire as soon as Zeus come lookin’ for me. In this, Nature be as any rich shite What I beg on the street they provide not a glance, Not even gob upon me bare feet. Thus be this isle what hath no use for beggars But what a beggar’s labors can make a it And what like ta make a beggar in perpetuity. Work? That I be in prefect quarantine a Antium And no need a transport for such leisure As a hill a bones provide What some do catch rain water and be a goblet thus And what one day me skull spill a some wayfarer’s cold brof. What be they what do me this way. By shear lack be I bare a crime Though me do fornicate in the road and shit in the hedges Or suppose ta shit in the road and bone in da bushes. But it not be envy what goad me curse me betters But what they crown themselves thus wifout labor a virtue, But what be virtue a slaughter and virtue a greed. What thus all meaning be worf not a shite in the hedges And all virtue be buggered in the road What be Ulpian’s via publica be by ius publicandi, A good road be certain a guinea stamp a equites, The highway and the my way a gold’s fraternity, What by dispossess what good road beds make fleet What not sleep in their’s but under antique Krios What be cast a rustic by Caesars and Ptolemies Ta the grief a the flight a them’s What be blown about by dirty Senatus’ wealf, Exiled if you will. What be Empire’s appetite but dominion, Ta bugger the world wif order. What all stink be Roman stink. A wood mowed a hay for the Classis. Mountains sullied a copper and tin. And thus Empire doth give buggery a bad name As what common bloke be fucked upon that weal. _______________ Ictus recounts his banishment upon this isle Be I here at the end of the world because Apicius Has naught his silphium what ta season his cod Or Phineas lions enough for the circus. Or Gaius Verres what bemoan his post ta Sicily What oak and pine be lost So triremes be built to plunder Sardinia and Corsica What be but mill and plank ta Norf Africa. From Hispania ta Syriaca there be are no leafy abode, No littoral left upon these sylvan shores, From whence the Dryads have been chased, And much booze and leisure and congenial talk Upon the coze a softer hills and softer women. But Gaius cries “There be not a main-mast In all of Nebrodi.’ What the chaste Naiads giggle. Were this but Ikaria and I at Asclepius’s table Savoring the Socratic rooster Simmering in a fine Balisca wine Sweetened by agency a the lead pot. For here I be girthed about by the wisdoms A these ageless islanders, and our Athenian sage. And the great healer and earth in a grape And Calumella’s culinary instruct For tender foul what be so brutal about the barnyard. No! No poison goblet for Canus Ictus! No such truf. But a toad. You be ill, Canus. Here upon this Bone yard, this public dump, repose. Here beyond ear shot you be free ta wax evangelical So get well, Canus. Cisterces will see to sacrifice As be all morsels fancied by the gods be forsaken here. But there be mussels and pine cones, frogs. But mind the yellow toads or the fate a Socrates Be sure as secured a your own hand As hungry as be such. And the vipers what meat be Delight but be deft a rock or stick ta dodge the bite. No. No poison. Aye? But venomous laughter All fangs what free a me ta be stung Not by goblet and flowery speech But thumb press upon the business end of a prickly meat. For what pansy be I ta survive This barren osseous insula. Drowse what be next ta death And here literal among the stems and stalks A dead things. Ovidius what writes a callow munifex What share a pot a adders seasoned wif garlic and garum. And what I flattered wif lies worthy a Odysseus from young lips, And offered repast and wine And then but struck about me head and Lashed ta a mizzen mast, drunken guffaws For siren song. What a day’s journey, I be cast here upon What a discount Odysseus ta ignoble Philoctetes A metamorphy neither Ovidius nor Sophocles oblige. What be cynic but a poor man’s Epicure, What moderation be but aspiration denied For what evils be between attaining a couch And stuffing oneself upon it. The triclinium’s provision no more a stasis A Epicurean comity as three to a klina Wrestling over a a pig’s liver while discoursing Aristotle For what compat be appetite’s and the mind. And these Epicures proscribed by Licinius Crassus What his pleasure be rapine and fire And purchase a scorched fields for but a farthing Such that if me tub be worthy a the pleasure a proscription So be I as its meat a rank, stringy terrapin And in any soup the brof be but ta offend. But it be Crassus’ slave Hilarus sure What mock me ta evangel the waves disperse And the shore rocks like smoke roil For all be the import a me vagrant mind. “I be slave a Crassus and what scars be sure But you be a slave ta poverty and your scar Run deep and advance your fate,” Say this lickspit, slog, Hilarus What Crassus for humor or wager discharge As he be naught but a nit or flea. And thus be the insolence a this Crassus what by decimation prove he be More dangerous than any enemy. But I be spared and freighted Pierced but by Hilarus’ Parthian Shot And left on this beach, king a the crabs, ta rot. Mulling what great expense Crassus goes Ta disperse a fart. ________________ Ictus and Hilarus enter into dialogue Ictus: “Dear Hilarus dost thou wish to contend In word and thought what idle claims Many a sword has sour sung, its charms Bearing that of a rutting pig pushin’ up filth For a morsel a cob. Be you one by war This that be such and so, Dyin’ comrades last breaf on the field What be his last hack and wheeze in the jakes, His dreams what err merit a life And his regrets what err merit his grief. A lie told him what become his truf, And when a lie be truf best a that be scorched Err this fool, this soldier this slave be before me A shackled concubine to but a man.” Hilarus: “I’d bloody thee meself, me dimune Ictus, You what wait a dog’s fate. But me master fancy I lay you here But what perhaps I with a wink say I missed the ‘S’. And if thus I heard ‘slay’, Will he laugh and invite me drink?” Ictus: “Or will he disembowel you And limp leave thee in thy stink. For such easement he have upon you As whim he have upon me.” Hilarus: “And what call this exile paradise. What be a Crassus’s hand and his alone.” Ictus: “He has and what I ta know As any damsel be fated to a satyr. For Crassus cares me little but me words a lot. Or holds me care not at all But a me words it be another everything. So that he care a me me silence So that such care not extend ta me mouf And thus I starve a this odd hill.” What Crixus brag what at the Pythian games He slew men, Diogenes say, ‘Nay, I defeat men, you defeat slaves.’” And if this be quarantine where be thee rag That me fetor not topple thee.” Hilarus: “Hardly but your mouf want ta speak And ta speak, bite. And what foul disease Attend thy froth. What bafflin’ brew Of occult As and Zs, trackless as mountain snow, And cold ta what life brings.” Ictus: “And what? Doth not life bring you the wit Thus are chattel ta another man, Whether that man’s abuse be just or as indeed many His rebuke be counterfeit. Who does not know Crassus? His moods, His cruelties, his bunkos and frauds. Buying the freehold a condemned men. His tempests brought on by wine In sweet sinks a lead and honey, What you be beat full measure As one what next be prodded upon the gallows. You and me be but the same When measure a our proxim ta power And what Crassus be. By temper or such conceal Still you must obey whereas I must disabuse Crassus A his power over me like the Sinope done Alexander, And by thus bring a glint a what thy freedom might be. Fright a this banishment. Bloody certain. Regret it? Cold and hunger not yet have full play. But you be the cur what be on a leash. What beat an old man for his feral emeute.” Hilarus: “Fool! For what I be but a lord What this very night sup upon savored lamb And lie me face between the aromatic thighs A Abelia and Xanthe, so sated I roar a Herakles in me sleep. And if me master, Crassus, choose By whim or guile a Jove’s pretext or his simple soothsay Ta have me slay, I go upon waves A wine and tides a Eros wifout Epicurean ration, Pure in me pleasure. Doth no less Achilles say, “O glitterin’ Odysseus, never try a homily a me dyin’. What I rather follow the plow as a sharecropper’s thrall Than be king over all the wretched dead.” Ictus, whilst thee rub thy chiggers and Fuck thy hobo mistress in the thoroughfare Even now less a those deprived As it consist in thee design. Here I take leave before I be overcome wif envy A me own dinner And swoon a me intimate prospects. And wif report of a job well-done Disposing a one a Rome’s most famous vagrants anon One of a sect what coarse dispose most please. What Plato accord a crude copy a Diogenes Whilst thou chiggers congress Ere thee starve or whilst thou freeze.” Brutus, Hilarus’ Lieutenant: “Hilarus, we must turn to our oars For what thy speech relate still here There be less a day And certain no more a man What this Ictus declare his own fate And the hour is growing late And we must harbor some leagues hence.” Ictus: “Yes, Hilarus, thy master awaits thy return Wif praises or some rumor a what you and Master’s concubine hath done. Sure you not know whence death doth come Jealous rage a false calumny, a harlot’s knife, old age.” Hilarus: “Your risk be plied, not mine. You what taunt Crassus outside his walls What ape your burlesque a me master’s wealf And conquests as he be ta campaign Against Parthia what country be blessed Ta not know your name Much less your dispose a life and deaf Maybe upon Crassus’s return he see fit To fetch a you what remains and if it still can howl Like a bitch, put it on a spit. Here. Take this kick as me farewell. No better leave off lest I snag your smell.” Ictus: “Push off to your master, slave, As I wave you back to Hell. What I know a that darkness you inhabit Be what inform me bile. Men condemned in Crassus’ courts Such purchase their freehold upon dispatch. Or you his slave what torch an insula, And then 5000 in Crassus’ shackles Form up a fire brigade And chuck charred chunks a children To the maws a your master’s mastiffs.” Hilarus: “Compose an elegy, what you who be comic And small in all things. Perhaps that skull there at thy feet be Spartacus, A slave what be a your likening, Unburdened a what the arena nor Crassus no longer task. Not even parched flesh about the bone Ta weigh up an earthly countenance. It be your praises a the rebel what win you this desert trophy. And certain as days thy new acquaintance be this skull What he and you may converse a me aberrant prick And hairy wine sack, and tsk tsk a me indulgence, You ripe little fruit. Here, here Take up this skull. Yo, yo. Do you be Spartacus? Your poet darlin’ be here, The same shite what taunt his betters And won him place at this table and court. Let’s see a flout. From thy mouldering labors disport. Slave’s lineage surpass the Palatine. Surely among these be an asses jawbone And what say they be not a Son a Israel In need of a good myth wif a side a redemption As Crassus hold much of Syriaca And be about ta move on Parthia. What be thy freedom to forsake such ranks. What say you Ictus. Speak. Lest I award thy magpies tongue ta Spartacus.” Ictus: “Slay me. Chop me about And carry me head off ta Crassus as be all me care. Here toss Spartacus skull makin’ surety what not, Such that he speak through me.” Hilarus: “Here vessel. Grasp thy guardian’s bony pate. Ictus: “Gladly vassal ta a feckless master.” Hilarus: “Most silent be thee. Thy head so down disposed. And what be thy mute wif folly?” Ictus: “Nay. Nay. Fuck nay. Spartacus be a them What need not dispute wif bootlickers, Livin’ or dead. For what would threat a hapless, baldin’, Unarmed philosophe but such be surnamed a cur Even as his object and trusted task be so named. For do I not communicate frough this dog Ictus To bear witness ta your servile task. Mercy warden. Walk the mutt til he shites Then back to his gutter in the Lupine hills Where he flourish as thy hero Be a campaigns a terra speculatio And thee be but a pyro what pour oil And pitch a torch a wretched insulae, What ghettos Crassus raze What the rents be raised in turn. What be slave Spartacus ta such indulgent god, our Crassus? Ditissimus homo in Mundum. What pack be descent a wolves? And who but Ictus be ta wash lettuce But fear a good bath? Who but Ictus be drunk on hunger But tender a phrase what incite Crassus’ wrath? Who but Ictus holding a filfy skull ta his ear Would wager ta make his warden laugh? Be I garrulous before the garrote As on me knees thy shadow blots me, And I a diminished a me master be What by me name, Dog Bite, ended he. So here fair Hilarus I lift me skirts ta thee That ye may gaze upon Vulcan’s spindle crack A what speed or patience be, taint ta back, Me smile be cast erect upon thee As any what a rectus be. What mean this smile there be much mental contest For Graechus Flavius it be a strike a Hephaestus axe. The same bundle a kindlin’ what be Rapped in sticks what by 3 degrees Cleave a revered fasces from me stinkin’ feces. Crispus Crus what see any aromatic hollow But a receptacle for a rigor cock beat by the elements Until it be satiate and ta feckless pulp return. As Socrates so might say Zeus loved Ganymede for his mind. But Plato, a thorough swot a catamites a Crete, What tender Ganymede impart An enlightened god be from behind. And swart Herodotus report on the Melopian shore The arse crease across as doth an horizon But ta tender a smile or frown By way the end the crease be turned up or down What a mouf do and bold Pausanius bear Ta visit a people what bof eat and excrete North and south, from both bum and mouf And their mouf be sheer as their bum be slit Be as the sun doth dawn and set Upon the drawn bow of the horizon.” Brutus: “And does not the sun so threat ta banish the day, Hilarus, be we off and be done a this dog’s chatter. What amuse be such whimpering That be he correct and be but a dog. And a faithless one at that what bites the hand What feeds it. But what be on all fours and beg thy not deny his nibbles.” NOTE: At this point in the text 14 leaves are missing from Father Giuseppe Rastus’s original transcription of Ictus’s text. In 1204CE a monk, Friar Piccolo Balsaccio quartered for the winter at the Monastery at Subiaco was given the task of collating some 30 texts in the abbey’s library in exchange for bread and board. During this process, it was discovered that 14 of the vellum leaves of Canus Ictus’s homily were missing at the present point in the text. This omission remained a mystery until 1873CE when the renowned Ecumenical scholar, Ubatzo Putzilini, working in the Vatican Library under the Papal seal, discovered that in 819CE a monk, one Brother Azbesto Grasso, was assigned to clean the library chambers. While at his task Brother Azbesto received the call of Nature and since the library sits atop a tower at the end of a narrow, winding staircase our dear Brother had neither the will nor, as it is written in Galen, the musculus contractionem to properly attend the jakes which lay outside the abbey walls. Instead, Brother Grasso retreated to a convenient oriel at the top of the tower, and dropping his britches hung his bung over the casement and casting doubt upon the notion of God’s image and likeness, shat like St. Paul’s mule. Then upon relieving himself, which was no mean task having eaten dozens of ripe figs and much mutton stew, he proceeded to employ the leaves of Ictus’s text to thoroughly absterget asinum, tossing the newly soiled manuscript into the fire. A record of a monastic hearing of early 820CE reveals that Brother Azbesto was punished with 60 rosaries, 100 lashes from six strong birch branches, his bung violated by a lit votive candle every Tuesday during Lent, and he was ordered to dig a new latrine for the Abbot’s Quarters and another for the convent. He also was ordered to abjure figs and mutton for two years. This crucial mystery so eloquently resolved through the art of scholarship, we may now move on. Ictus: “This Isle be made Sirenum scopuli By me grunts and hoots What curious attract the sailor For what be took for pig’s meat Just a spear and tinder away. What unwashed a Jason or Odysseus follow me stink And these fictions take a mercantile and sober turn, What by scrawn and scab I be not worth a pig ta eat But yet put these sea scholars ta jest And set their empty stomachs to churn. And tack aflamed rags ta monkeys’ tails ta Roust their fleets ablaze. For here there be no jagged rocks but quiet portage And much dry hemp and mazy forest. “So lift me cloak, Hilarus, and urge Aeolus Waft me ballocks up thy hero’s nose.” Hilarus: “Enough Ictus. Brutus smite this thing what Can’t speak but ta bitch his bread.” Ictus: “Me corpse be a sweeter perfume What those like you what be employed a it. Those what be gobs a death below decks. Death what be so common Be thee now not its creator And all mortal stone for thy creation? Smite me! See if I not prove an indifferent idolatry? Shall I parry thee Brutus wif this dead mackerel, What wash ashore about me time a deliverance And what die not so taken by me preachment As lingering Hilarus.” Hilarus: “Hours now our sword we waste upon thee. Be we off dear Brutus lest wif your blood, Ictus, We scorn thee.” Ictus: “Go. Go then. Eschew me siren’s song Proof more I be the last what abide this tongue. Its true portage be a barren seas Far from your stripling comraderies. You sail ta land as I land ta sail. I curse thy affair as thee indifferent curse me And like dogs follow naught but Crassus’ orders, But not it what be between your master and me What we doth come to loggers. What be your master beyond his coin As I see you turn away? And push off at tide and strike the oars What pangs I feel so loud, So much louder they slap the sea, But not so hard, no, not so hard As their debark hath smote me. For what all I say when the saying amount ta sand, Ta addle what be a beggar’s bread anyway As be me speech, and be me actions, But vagabond upon me fellows’ ears. Be thee not even fellows a what they hear Yet their mind’s pass and impasse be well made in me And limits scorned what like children be Naught ta act beyond a child’s or a dog’s capacity. How live I so alone what know but scolding and begging, Begging and scolding and mind But a cozy hole when it gets cold As desires but it double for a grave. What I bank a flame wif me steel and flint And cook me jousting mackerel Ere it bruise the face a Brutus Its mortal stink so profound It fend off mortal combat. Stink do it like me dear Loquatia’s cunt But me recall there be a bit a herring About her nether airs. Some maidies what be bred a goat’s milk and veal, So say Epicurus be a mild snatch What be sweet and composed. And Omnigedes Claim ta mate a hundred breed a pisces What cognate wif the very stinks a Athenian pussy. And sage Socrates swore There be aroma a cuttle between Diotoma’s thighs, Where Cicero find Clodia rank as a carp. And where dwell Plotinus but among Gemina’s hedge Find conch be there composed, What there he speak of be his nose. While Epictetus rendered naught upon lovely twat While Plato, odd, find snatch so mild a temper ta be cod. And myriad philosophes What accord be there amorous lot Find muff sweet as a scallop or but Piscean rot. And so I muse whilst me tongue doth dance Between these spiky mackerel bones A me Lady Loquatia’s tender button And ta whose septum find her stink his home. For a slave best win a queen with daunt olfaction And tongue what be root naught for words But parries like a sword.” Hilarus: “Brutus leave four skins a port Ta cloud this wretche’s fate. For I think he be but bark and would stay us company Even as our swords jig about his neck.” _______________ You don’t have to be drunk to be an asshole: Two schools of thought Four skins, Hilarus! Four skins stave me confine but a few days. We Dog’s drink moderate, But that be drink in the gutters a Rome. But here naught be temperate On this hump a sand and bone? No ‘port’ be among these rocks So too soon me mind be clear That spite 4 bags a port death be near. There be two schools a thought: One say excess. And one say naught. Where Pittacus hisself be labored hard Upon me words and actions Ta double fines What be fungible but a few hours And sustain but a few days, What Hippocrates commend a terebinth tree And what as tree’s foliage self-hanged I be. Even if I drink four sacks all in a solitary Bacchanal And deem two ta fresh water And usin’ the round red berries what flourish hereabout Occupy two sacks what affirm future ferment straightaway Lest I stumble ‘pon a terebinth tree today And I do stumble more than most For want a wine I smash me head upon this stony coast. Words, mere words, and man’s love a them Be excess’s accelerant and in haste be error. And error abide brazen content. And what coarse but appeal ta the senses And blot ta dreary mind what drag the cart Ta some lofty peak And few attend what aught we speak And haute trade fame for art. But the booze find many companions And companions find publishers What a sure their heads not bear eggs. So better quell skill and sapient urges What mistake be coined cynics What with mere bowl and stars Much reflect and outlast all in our simplicity. But time strip temperance and make sweet liquor But dice for salad or soak for fish. Such that I imbibe me first sack upon the thought There be a rank quality among the Equestrians What let denarii some blotted bloke be his war surrogate. What not appeal ta me outlaw sense, be statute sure. But as sentience doth comport with being And being be sole right and just What need not make any appeal to law Yet wealth be by statute supposed,… Here let me drink to edge me thought,… (He drinks) And, and statute be supposed a wealth But laws wif sagacity be not riddles, Ah, here’s me engine, As what be a chicken or an egg arose But surely a capon in Equestrian robes And a feeble army a feeble bred . So fuck you Pittacus. Grave laws be broke by light a day By sober men made drunk wif wealf A mean cowardice liquid courage would abate And put him piteous wif Achilles at the Trojan gates. ________________ All business a Empire should be conducted while drunk Else parties a the first part see the perfidy A the second part and daggers be drawn, Or vice versa what lead ta curses and blood Or worse lawyers, Where perfidy be a comely word for lies And boost be a oaken word for steal. These be common compost a law. (Takes a swig) Alexander’s mum, Olympias, be a souce true And her boy be a rude drunk What stand in Diogenes light and straightway Does not our Dog, plum eloquent, Stripe the noble punk. Same Alexander what conquered the world Though it be but another giddy binge. Or Zeno what many a drunk he offend wif syllogism What a drunk can’t seal a secret when The heat come knockabout and quiz ‘em. What paradox that Zeno be so blind At tollens as Polyphemus what tallies his goats Or city state what stay Alexander’s wrath wif wine By o’er-filling its moats. Cato frowns upon drinkin’ games, du’n he now. While crapulous Pausanias need ‘the hair a the dog’ To converse the mind a the gods. But I repeat it be the Crassus’ a the world What drive a cynic ta the sack and jar. Broke down, what accommodate one palsy There be but another attack And rents and liens their be more beggars in the road Than honest philosophes. Philistines what not seek out poverty but that it find them What sort hunger and shelter a some rookie amalgam. And many be a trough a Hilarus stripe. Slave sure baptized in other’s blood, And bull’s blood be sure, at Crassus’ behest. What encumbered Spartacus what day Fell upon me as all evil blot good As the vulgus mark the moon blotted sun Be an omen of Romulus, what superstition bond. What Alexander’s soothsay use ignorance to rally victory And Pompey from Spain straightaway Trash Crassus what claim C. But knob a bit a knavery. At once I be free ta wail in the streets. Stride naked and bereft What profit that these not be free And here I be free born too be bereft And the fuckin’ thing not even be about me. Where’s that wine sack me pinwheel cosmos? Where’s hooved Komos among these knaves? For Komos be a pretty beast And comely be his wanton feast Til every ember and every piss rod cease. What be Komos temptation but he have the lady? What chase be they he have her not? For there be many ladies ta sport, And many woodland spots ta shade a bed. The forest, the fen, the burial plot. So be there a lady randy for sport The merchant’s road ply much slutty culti and perfume Yet upon the body there remain And many spots ta decor what it may room. The lips, the nips, the twat, the pits. The bum, the ear, the flower, the clit Behind the knee and the toes, O the toes and their funky bits. Here they be as here she sit. Ere stultified the Indus make a coil Or clenched serpent a it. But so time and neglect speaks ta acceptance. But ta accept what here I cannot have Speaks hollow virtue and mental vice Here a cunt be second fiddle Ta a half sack a wine and a thimble a rice. Does drink be a despair, for here I swear Much Dionysius be in me what pain us As we be but clumps a Promethean favor. What Sinope find a Pandora consequent his bed As but consent ta fuck and left unfed. One bag a Dionysius down. If the crabs retreat this beach Me be compelled ta boil this skin. What same hunger be the tellin’a truths. Truth be I drunk and sanctimony quite suit solitude. O’er chance be it the wine or circumstance What make me doubt the tale A Master Dog and Magnus A, Its gawky happenin’. Be it this sad dark sea lapping at me feet This wave kneeling before me leaves, Leaves, leaves nothing but verities, unrestrained As they be leashed ta Neptune ere god’s gravity, Over the slavering kiss a the tide. Hear this dog howl at the moon What be me fettered ta me exile. Dire. There be no bathos a this isle Just yawning surround a dark twice o’er the dark drink What cast me off ta Hypnos Til betwixt the juniper again Apollo wink. ________ End of First Part.
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