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Carlo Parcelli
Canus Ictus in Exilium : [Dog Bite in Exile] Translated from the Sermo Vulgaris by Harald Comus Earwicker
& Carlo Parcelli
Left: 'Sorrow' woodblock print / Tim Wengertsman
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For the introduction and Part I of Canus Ictus see FlashPoint 17: The Dream or What Drunkenness Imparts Be Not All Fancy Or the Exiles Awakens from a Nightmare |
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What this be a sea a wine
What I be lashed a lines flush wif grapes
What bunch be a bubbles
What be but bursting heads a men
Their bloody bulbs what impart the dark
As I nailed against a torrent wall
Ship’s hull, brick bound and seamed
What cracklin’ sound clash ‘bout me ear
Like the song a cacklin’ sirens
Whetted amidst Jove’s reports.
What pounded ferment scourge me firmament
And pound me fundament a figment
A me mind’s base breech
Was what be fucked a merry condiment
Wif a jar we jolly jam on our bread.
For be it folly I be inwit a half full sack a port
Spyin’ through the birf canal at
The howlin’ cantilever a me heart
But struck me pose that be not twat
A me dear Loquatia for I sense a far off breeze
What squeeze the brass fittings a me nose
And close as would a noose.
And me mouf be a salt
As I be a fortnight a Edie’s poon
And beyond the wall be desert
And somethin’ Parthian what come soon
What through the long end a the glass portend a tomb.
Spilled winesacks and slain sheep about the ground
What for blood and concourse arise Tiresias
Wif Odysseus and Achilles what be two hounds.
Sniffing rude Philoctetes ere his wound doth stank,
“Me smell be a carrion as thy do well ta note,
For it be a timber rot ere Charon’s boat
What port thee ta this very isle
What be less a earth and more a Hell.”
And hound dog Achilles speak
But all be howls as be his heel
As Philotectes punished by a poison arrow.
So Odysseus “See here and hear me as dogs don’t lie.
So this me first truf as a dog be I.
And certain I No Man in this pelt.
And most wise no man may comprehend me whelp.
So who you be dog when we be thus.
We may but bark but thee not speak for us.
So dogs be dogs and men be men.
And don’t dream me ta tell ya again.”
And I shudder and loose me bowels
As his teef grow sharper and keen wif his howls.
And relief he vanish behind the heroines a the Palatine,
Tyra what fucked Poseidon at the water’s edge.
And Antiope what queued up ta be at Zeus’s prick .
And Epikaste who fucked her baby boy
Ere she knew her blood.
And Cloris what be Neleus’ trophy wife
And Leda and Iphimedeia and Ariadne
What me head be nog, and nog grog,
But du’n custom parse heroine from whore
What tug and tittle an emperor’s golden sack.
And nip me flesh doth these heroine harlots do
And probed me parts and precipice
And tippy toe up me thigh and breast
And pry at the mounds a me arse
And pluck the lobe a me ear.
And pleasure me anon til I awake
Wif a start what be debauched
By a thousand crabs at me nads,
What Okypodinus name ‘ghost,’
And what myf proper call maenads
What Orpheus disembowel,
Now nip a me nether parts
And be vice upon me toes,
And be at the jelly a me eyes
If one not ta shear the tip a me prick
What like a Semite I be circumcise,
As at where all I cry,
“What Morpheus take such base shapes
Upon these rocks
What would in sweet dream off mine.
Certain our gods not be as comely as a crab
Barter be better than whelm and stab.”
But I be not Caesar or other desserts.
And me exile sure not be ta Cilicia
Where he be a bit player ta crush Spartacus
And the siege a Mytilene
But our Crassus make me ragged bait
On some cosmos’ sandy shore.
So’s me drop tunic and make straight for the sea
Shakin’ the bloody bitin’ nippers offa me.
And then back crush a bushel wif a rock
And wif me flint catch a fire
And so me tormentors in their own juices cook.
And respite take a the second sack a wine
What Hilarus saw fit ta leave behind.
What it be his mercy or me wit.
And gaze out at what null point be Rome
What me I ken if Crassus build a bridge ta me here
I burn it down ravver than clamor home.
What be home if hearth be kept a desert dung
Or drowned wif a plummet a Jovean piss.
And what wif the women a munifex mingle jizz
As about the cook fire they mingle gods
When brood and days be far flung
A this bloody damned ruin Romulun kingdom.
Rome think its vassals be a Remus kingdom come.
Dead by bloods hand such that others gods and vices
What be not wholly undone, and offer as gift
The insult a citizen. What digest a Rome be Sabines.
Its sons set upon the world wif flagrum at their backs
More than this toad Hilarus alack.
What be a slave or freeman but a cold indulgence.
Whim a the maintenance a wealf and kingdom.
What shut me up for the right ta wed
Or build a tannery or set up shop.
This not be worvy a Jove anymore a Ictus.
And Hilaris Fuscus. He be a Germania, be he not.
So he be as much a Roman as I be a quarantine.
And slave and traitor what be more his stylin’
For me ingenii et verum prove out me exile.
So what be they what in chains deny their ancestors
For franchise. Be they slaves to futility
And the Roman yoke. Or Spartacus
What throw off such yoke
Ta be slave ta futility a arms.
Bondage be death at its moment
What seek life on this side or that.
Where be that skull? And I be need a stout stick.
Ah, here be the toothless bugger.
What be I call ye? Be I call ye Oraculum.
A seer ya say a bloody Brittannia
How ye be this way? I mean
Tides and leagues wise. Not
What motte bear your bones
For that be but result a such a breach.
What? You be ward a Tuathal. Ya don’t say.
What our dear Tacitus
Claim be a exiled Prince a Ire riven from his home
What that Agricola use his throne as pretext
A the conquering armies a Rome.
I mean, every Julian some soulless plutocrat
Pinch an empire?
And thee be a nameless cog a Tuey’s retinue.
Certain you have no Latin and
What good be no common tongue
What be ta converse.
No offense, but be you leave this bony pate,
As l call upon that insurrect Spartacus.
What we plot til me hide rots away.
I not want ta sit in silent stare
Or tutelage a some heathen tongue,
This exile be not sanctuary, more a boar in a pen
What mill about in his own filf at Crassus’s whim.
And be all I know Crassus purchase this island
Wif the blood a what few here inhabit.
Such a fortune erase a race a giants
As quick as the science a Archimedes or Democritus dispose,
For what be immortal be nature exposed
What the gods be stunts and blind volition
And Crassus bilk from a credulous rube
Or better yet bet his man Hilarus
Render by arms the island monster free
Wif a half dozen mutilate and rot corpses a gargantua
Stabbed and plucked from the sea
Or bears wif dead gladiator’s faces jigged in
What hexed his insula be what no incarnation
Be he man or god or demi-god but Crassus protect
Not even Herakles’ or Alexander’s
Wif their tragic defect
What be hot fury not calm bunko as be Crassus’ combat.
Not ta say Crassus’ not gird Hermes belt wifout a sword.
Ictus Is Overwhelmed wif Self-Pity
But if this be quarantine what some phantom pox
Or infect a me preachment
Be more ta follow unless Crassus
Will me enisled a more bitter pill.
Even lepers fair have mates ta
Share what mystery afflict and doty pain
What relief be in it echoed in mutual howl.
What Hippocrates name the Phoenician Scourge
What be maritime ta me a what agent
Carry such cruel consequence upon merchant seas
The same what be about our luxuries.
As Plutarch and Herodotus mark pig’s milk lepra’s source
And swine rut a the moon’s wane,
What sow wise Leviticus,
The Semites condemn unclean
And the Egypt’s imbibe but once a Julian
What sacrifice a pig ta the moon
But be it not this concourse between nations
What barter this foul disease
Where before none exist.
Did not the cynic, Onesicritus, companion
Alexander ta Indus and Taprobane
What his brain become mealy wif lies.
And some say cholera be a me nature
What wif me bein’ a the filfy sort
So’s none invite me ta vesperna much less cena
For fear a what me sunken eyes not exhibit
But thirst for sorcery and magic contrive.
Or that I be mad what preach and spread such
As me scat about the garden what consider like me mind
Quite nourish the soul a Ceres.
The vote be as the divans be empty when I arrive.
Yet I possess not a leper’s cankers.
Nor express outward sheath a sores.
The Rome what billeted me here,
Such as we circle this provocation each ta other
Claiming which be ill and close tenders death.
Thus the dance a death be no absolute a pustules,
The clamoring a fevers and hack of rheums,
And biles and phlegms upon the bed sheets.
But be beaten iron cunning and sharp still hot
Upon this rind, this husk what malevolent natures reprove
As we do the god’s work mistaken in our station
And nothing spared of this insolence caste down in turn
Ta clench and hiss in Vulcan’s constant forge.
Canus Names Cynics the Guard Dogs a the Gods
Be it here I am deprived of me contempt
A what counterfeit Rome be aglow.
Here in the darkness where but the boar’s grunt rebukes
And the crickets chatter a their marketplace
And assignate in the salty marsh.
As little as I be a their kind it be a dog
What world ease me passin’ here?
More than a skull on a stick I dare say.
Or whereabouts on this insula be a wolf
What I steal a pup what be weaned
And make it crazy wif care
Such that it know not its nature
Ta subserve mine. But why be we dogs?
For what turnspit breed seek deprivation
What find a master’s hearth and
Ward off all what would approach
What be more Hilarus than Ictus
Whose slander be feral as his bite and bespeak infect
And rupture and wivvered limbs.
Be me not more wolf what be a breed
What raise up this very Rome
And remnant a some course a fealty ta Mars
So’s us Cynics be guard dogs a the gods
And hunt our prey wif deeds and words.
What he fancy toy wif Ovid,
Our Sinope jape he be Melitan when rapacious
But Molossian when sated
What not pegged breed or gaze.
And don’t this portend favor a the gods,
At least what be wit’s assurance.
But sure slave what Hilarus be chained by day
As be Cato’s dictum,
Ta be keen ta protect Crassus wealf at night.
And what Hilarus hunt the likes a me
It be at bid a Crassus.
And what be Varro’s idyll?
Hilarus be perfect wif a bulbous head
What be sustain a boulder’s blow,
Sturdy teef in a ruddy jowel wif a well spring a drool,
And droopsy ears wif mange and ticks,
Thick shoulders wif a melium about its neck,
Wide damp paws,
And a thick tail, wif a deep, rheumy bark and
White ta discern from thief or prey in the dark.
Does this not describe Hilarus
As a momma ferret smell out her brood?
Hilarus what hunts not for himself but his master.
Crassus what crucify 6000 rebels along the Appian Way.
And me left here ta account the day
What I regret he not crucify me.
Soon me wine runs out and
Crabs and cockles leave me belly off ta bloat and churn,
Wif me spare cynicism draggin’ out the sentence.
For be not Crassus or Hipparchus already take up Ira’s mask,
Whirlin’ in moonlight at water’s edge
Keenin’ shards a Livius and Seneca.
Canus Recalls How the Roman Cynic Foetipedus
Is Credited wif the Discovery of Pecorino Romano
What our dear Foetipedus rescue several chickens
From the fate of another’s belly.
This be from a poor village a Apulia
What over patrone Blandus Balbus preside,
And where before him Foetipedus be brought.
But a the moment Balbus be about his Cicero
For his speech be spew of a sputtering pot
And this be all ta say a its charm.
But far from what our carus Ciceronis present
For toadies and prophets be
But perfect in what be their presentiment
Concealin’ imperfection in their true intent
Lest their heads be shed a their body whole.
So Baldus order “La-la-lo-lock this
Foetipe-pe-pe-d-d-dus fellow among the sheep
Until me dispatch quin-quin-quin-que
Canno-no-no-nonicus wifout shame
Be set before Ci-ci-ci-cicero
And Demo-mo-mo-mo-thenes.”
And thus Foetipedus be cast among the sheep
What stable take on the stink
What jam our dear cynic harbor
Tween the toes a his feet
And under the roof a his limp arbor.
And here languish our dear cynic
Refreshed a hot milk right way from the tit
But soon a foul sour curdle be imbue a it
What colonies a muck what engage upon
Foetis feet and scrote be soaked up
A bofe milk and meat.
And stored in such a pungent state
The flesh grow funk and the milk thick and rank,
What take on the stank a Foetis’ feet’s auric crust.
And for a fee farmers brought their bland cheese,
For a fortnight our cynic’s feet upon it take their ease
And like water ta wine
Or Simon Magus what serve all Rome
A fine cheese a thin air,
Foetipedus dallied many a year upon his back
And thought namore of philosophy - alack, alack, alack.
For what not only by upending did he please the palate
But the patron Baldus be not estranged a Cicero
And his factitious doxy na more
For what cure our Foeti provide
Baldus have his cavern frescoed in the cynic’s jam
And thus have cache a pecorino what
Come down ta this day and much please us,
What sauce and pasta much abide,
And what filf again be once ta the cynics shame
Now be tribute of assurance and fame.
Canus Comes Upon the Graveyard of Shipwrecks
What be a this? Sandy beach and southy peak?
What be the paces a me insula?
Shall I be eat by a bear or by a boar be gored?
Is there a cool repast and spring?
Or fiery lip upon the summit
What likewise invite Empedocles?
Thoughts what occupy a cynic’s walk
‘Til he come upon a boneyard a Minoan merchants,
Stone cypress piled in heaps by Santorini’s wrath
Wif skeletons wove as please this isle.
And in the distance the prow of a trireme
Nods toward a spit
A human bones picked clean by Neptune’s yardies.
And six stadi hence the Semite’s ship,
The keel 300 cubits bakin’ in the sun,
Wif scattered vittles ne’r time nor crabs undone,
Driven aground in the Great Flood and truf be told
All lost and not a fawn or cub survive;
An Arawat be this tombstone a animal bone
What rival any carnage a Apicius’ table.
Too late for this flesh but what fed from it be about.
What be the world’s menagerie be reduced
A these what scuttle about
Bones chastened wif arcadian piety.
Piled like Vulcan’s broom across Etna’s floor
And heaped upon this insula’s shore.
Elephants wif teeth struck from their jowels,
Like me dear Hipparchia, and bones
Weaned a their flesh, half in tide,
As here at the Pillars of Herakles
They perish as though at Hannibal’s labors
And not folly a flood a some Semite god.
And bones a dragons and giants
What be as trunks a trees
Or columns six times the size the beasts
Hannibal marched across the Pyrenees.
Skulls a lions, leopard and cameleopard and bears entwined
Wif the wildebeest, lambs, zebras and serpents a all kinds,
What sundry the earf be a revelation ta mankind
And a fine minced tartar or cold soup for the oofy few
What be masters what take dominion and make a stew.
And camel’s bones what got its dugs hoist on its back.
And dogs and cats what Roman households not lack.
Hyenas, jackals, panthers and wolves.
Jaguars, stags, bears and boars
Piled against the waves pummeling the shore.
A more melancholic scape no Sophocles out keen,
Where be this Noah scattered as others there
As me fancy Spartacus’ be an alien skull
What ta sharpen me wit lest by disuse
It and me become as it were, dull.
Thus I play out this course
A eruption, flood, transmogrified Jew
Lest farce be niggled and bound a me and you.
And there be the shipwreck a the Achaeans
What from hunger defy the gods
What form the man and fate the hardship
Like a worm what squirm half under a boot.
For what be Helios’ beef for these lost sailors
For ta starve be ta thwart fear
For but a stew what be made more savory
In a land replete a leeks and turnips, lentils, peas
And a sinewy shank a Zeus’s steer.
For what vengeful god forsake such legumes
Among a gravy a kidney and tripe
And pursue cunnin’ Odysseus’s no less his cunnin’ crew.
For half the men lay dead at the bottom a the sea
For but splash a pepper and garum
And the citement thereof.
And these what be weary a Odysseus folly wif stars
For naught less a Calypso say keep the Bear ta thy left
Whilst watchin’ the Pleaides.
But these be as Odysseus
Tappin’ his head and rubbin’ his abs,
All the fornicator bring ta bear
Droozy a Calypso’s bed what that cunt suck
The very marrow a your bones.
A mem what upon this insula
And bearin’ shipwreck be right ta home.
What Homer say, Odysseus be wif Pyfias at his side
And still bring his fleet naught from the lot.
What ten years ta go but
A few paces from Troy ta Ithaca?
Admitted the gods do fuck wif the sticky shite
And weary the plot, liar what finish malcontent
Wif his last lothario breaf what be far from home
Lest he pitch his tent upon the sea.
And that be the last we hear a the bloody liar
But for the burblin’ a poets what be little worf
And such say Aristotlese be cast out from this earf
For such accounts a the Achaean’s lies urge
Men on ta greater canards, monumental wrongs
And hideous purge.
At this juncture a note appears in the margin of Ictus’s text which reads
“’Rodrigo Borgia has had glory holes drilled in the confessionals so the
fine ladies of Subiaco may more diligently offer up their penance.’
- Da dietro a Gesù Cristo, 1492”
And Atrahasis a Akkadian Fame
What no blame be placed by gods upon mankind
For such chapter like the world be washed away.
And this Gilgamesh revive what every beast alive
Be consigned wifin a 120 cubits
Where the circus a Rome stay a hundred times
Brutes in cages and pens what hold not a fraction,
Not a myriadum a the world’s catabuli.
What the wise cynic by ratio suss out lies
And leave off such bruits and canards.
And as content such hazards be on-dit,
Men what die a commerce
Market myth ta cut their losses.
And as our hero Ictus ponder this
As Empedocles might the edge a his go-to abyss
He spied a skull and what ta speak
Cupped it by the jaw
But ta have the phantoms bones arise entire.
And up gli umidi another upon another
And this collegium followed him
And crowd about his small campfire.
And each held a short sword
And a dragon’s tooth about his neck
For these be the Spartoi spawned
A Cadmus what wif them seed the earf.
“Does Agenor’s boy know you’re about?
Does Ovidius?
Does your serpent here creep
For here he be but meat?
No lark a you lot what be spawn
But set upon one anovver.
Not no Jovian curse a ancestors
Or illicit Thrinacian barbie here.
Not no fuck a some pale goddess
What blush her guilt ta her celestial spouse
Or confess it outright and hurl a golden comb.
No winsome Io what an immortal might envy
And out of pique plunge thee upon one another.
No demand a Agenor, father ta proxy son,
Ta rescue a runaway daughter from no less than Jove.
You wif no patrimony at all, no father or mother.
From the muck half-formed like worms and toads
What brood a earth
And call man back to his mortal state.
Deprived of every pleasure but slaughter
And yet turned one upon another in that
Like feral dogs on a scrap
For the purses a poets
And what keep the hoi polio trump wif whit and jot
Cozen such exotica as you be.”
At this juncture a note appears in the lower margin of Ictus’s text which reads
“’Rodrigo Borgia has had grilles placed in the jakes whereby the clergy may
confess their sins whilst the aroma of their morning ablutions reminds them
of their mortality.” - Da dietro a Gesù Cristo, 1492”
Ictus Addresses the Spartoi
I, poor Ictus before you be,
But a retiari a the arena what parry wif me trident
And cast me net
Ta press the arrant wages a the sycophants and hypocrites,
Posers and frauds,
All but ta be cast out for me wit and virtue,
Spared but that me death be slow ignominy
Upon this insula a bones.
And thus a Rome I have an axe ta grind
And attend its use upon skulls not trees.
I be not fierce a stature but among these crabs
Me veins be right sauced wif venom
And me jowels hard grip sinewed a much incessant speech,
More terse and blunt what cause me homeland’s breach
And ta stifle got me cast upon this beach.
What say I be your general, your Arminius, me friends,
And you be me horde
All skull and bone, armored outward
Like me crabs,
Hung wif short sword and trident.
And back we sail ta assail Rome
It’s transgress upon our goodly natures.
Much as you be the livin’ dead
Much abused by the poets.
And me likes, makes Crassus’ see red.
And be I the drift if not the cast a general ?
Have not I the bandy legs of an equestrian
If but ta mount me queen Loquatia?
And thunderous roar a me nether parts
What attest Jove’s favor a our campaigns.
And I be spared a saddle
As you spare a pack train a stores
What you bein’ but bone
And but me remain a skin and guts alone.
And as I be bareback into battle
Thee sans prick as need not a caravan a whores.
Nor cooks and scullery, be I not aright.
And as I s’pose your lot,
No tabernaculum of games and wine
Though such pleasures risk mutiny
If left behind.
And marked forward one Spartoi who knelt.
Be this homage a arms what be what I felt?
But wif his claws he dug amongst the sand
And dislodge a toad
What croaked a such rude dismay
Til our Spartoi impale it upon a spoke
A the bony cage in what pass for his froat
And by shift and breaf,
And simple play a the neck,
Tuned liked a filthy cithara the bufo
What from bestial croak til a passable Latin
In this manner bespoke.
I be Ekhion and thee be daft
What forgone between Rome and this shore
Be a great moat between you and your fellows
See as we, Rome be uroburos a the sea
And we be fragon teef dislodged
And scattered a the Aegeaum Mare
Shards a what pitiable men call Limnos, Lesbos and Chios,
Andros, Naxos and Ikaria.
Our home be Asiana, the head a what be this guinea empire
Its upper jaw flush wif rocky shoreline
And the lower a teeming shoal,
And Greece be its cold embrace and
Italia a rear leg and gripping claw
What be all tail ta Gaul.
Thus Rome be Uroboros of the Mare Nostrum.
A dragon what head and upper jaw
Be a hard shore a Pergamum and Ephesus.
What cast thy here in this delirium
Ta desire take up arms ‘gainst this imperium.
What I be Ictus and be I be mad if I say
These crabs be our phalanx
What be armored a Neptune.
Dost thou need roads or doth thee scud the ground
A grace a some filial god what take pity
A all joy lost a you.
Ekhion: None dare call it madness
For none before be so struck.
A new age a folly be upon us
What baffle our physic.
Not even crazed Cleomenes crowned king
What from pique drove bruvver Dorieus
From Sparta’s shore
Be so mad as to take on Darius at Miletus behest.
Even he what be exiled as you be
And what on some desert isle cut out his woe
And spilled it ta the crabs.
Nor be this lunacy a yours be a the Muses
For you by your smell and manner be bereft a poesy
What be preserve of perfumed dandies
If I takes me Petronius and Juvenal aright.
Nor by thy stink Dionysius
And his drunken revelers
What ask their vomit be result a drink
Not ta share a sack wif one
Whose breaf is foul, covered in sores,
Wif his tunic hoist in his crack.
Nor so addled a plan belie prophecy
What not envision thy own bloodied body
In a butchered heap certain
As many a reluctant confederate not but see
But seek it so.
Ictus: Ah, an educated death mask.
What empty skulls do polly.
It be true, courage come not from bones
For there be no heart in thy cage
Nor nerves ta pluck.
Nor what be called guts or balls
Where none upon you clot or hang
And such be these what see naught pecker or puss
And be reluctant a your sad state.
Though I s’pose backbone doth speak ta valor
And spirit address pneuma
Though ye be wifout bellows
Likes us livin’, breavin’ fellas.
A man a arms, no I be naught
But ta boot pikeys what mull me blanket
Or mice what peck me millet,
Though I aright some success thereof.
Show which end a the sword and we tally
So much I be affronted by Rome.
Ekhion: Ah! Take Rome for pique?
Then what about Elysium a Thursday?
Or be that reserved for Avernus
What by proxim a Cumae
We might tell what bits a us be scattered where.
Oh, Ekhion thigh shin bone be a the shadow
A the volcanoes foot next the head a this Canus,
What it ever possess one be bereft a brain.
What be we? Some dire cult?
What can yours know a
What it be ta be spring from a toof
What nurture be but a brief nuzzle a Gaia?
What be Rome’s stores ta us?
And what’s more what they be ta you
What philosophy seem born a anger
What in all things Diogenes and Crates
And Sagacius be spare.
As not bear what thee harbor?
Peloros: Wait. For sure he be mad.
What not bear olfactory cause
Still be racked a his smell,
As filth cling to cloak and beard
And empty wineskins about,
What he be besot and mad as old Herakles
Wif stains a where his prick and asshole be.
And such be Sterquilinus what our dimune cynic
Be fertile a chiggers and mites
And what all manner a flies be about
As though he be but a pikey road apple
What sprout legs.
And certain be Cloacina what carry away
All Rome’s shite what surpass
All but Hades in stink. Hades, soul rank, what Orpheus
Barnstorm before Pluto and Persephone
Ta best plush Eurydice’s escape.
What Horace say Pluto be obdurate
What not a tear shed a any smell
Even the malodor a verse.
But Claudian claim the Emperor a Hell
With iron cloak wipes his tears
The better employ be ta wipe his arse.
Such a bitter fruit doth Orpheus release
It sparkle a common man’s nether hairs
Wif shards of funky, fetid airs.
And doth not Ovidius cite rank odor
A Zeus’s ballocks as he ape in shape of a bull
What fuck Io whilst stamping
About a his own stool
What Io be cow find solace
What make such a rank god tolerable.
And goose be funky so doubt a bit a swan.
Certain these gods be petty and whimsy
As be mankind, so stink be sure ta follow
For Tiberius be he not reluctant god
What for his blistered skin and runny cankers
Be dishonored wif those what stole
A rag about their nose and not distinguish between
Slave or kin for what offends did them in.
Thus as Tibi stink drive one ta believe
He be a god’ prerogative.
Yet hath he not power to bring us forth?
And does not madness spring a divinity?
This be divine as divine be inscrutable ta us
As it be ta what outward be his kind.
Ekhion: You mean he be what Socrates call a poet?
If he be poet I slay the thing right here
And scoop his marrow ta the crabs.
For if this be divine, Jove be ta pack up heaven
And grab an oar ta wander in time
As thus we be fated.
Ictus: Poet? What be I
Orpheus wif crabs for Maenads.
Or Argos’ destiny
As me song be a mewling cunt
What buskin’ ‘bout the Appian
Account herself a siren.
Listen:
‘I will count meself blest by fate
When all Rome calls Caesar great .
And wif many spoils you from Parthia return
A goat and a chicken to Jove I’ll burn.’
Ekhion: Nay. He be no poet. But what ta Achilles
Agamemnon confide “Zeus rob me a me wits.”
Not what precise a what Socrates say be divine.
But what thee say be prudent, Pelorus,
For his poem be martial
And little a the poet be a the martial mind.
And in kind a little mind be like ta be martial.
But be that poet’s face divine?
Peloros: Did not Dionigi
What the Minyades tell ta bugger off
Warp inta a bull, a lion, and a panther in turn
What fright the sisters?
And Jupiter be a bull what rape Io
And a swan what same upon Leda,
And sent a golden shower upon Danae
What from Vernacchio ta Terence
Doth Rome’s fearless comics ape ad nauseam
And happily spray upon a witting audience
Even as our Ictus stink
A many such cloudy yellow bursts
From the nozzle a his wrinkled purse.
Ekhion: Well said. But a bull or swan by nature
Reflect beauty what be a its kind.
But this Ictus, he be a misshapen bit
What be not a favorable compare
What all in nature be contradict.
Mad sure. But
Be this stick a twisted driftwood divine?
Cast out a Rome bein’ a lumbago ta contentment,
Ta roam in rags this jagged coast,
A hearth wif stars for eave and
What boast but the hiss a crabs and mussels
And what be a brace a winded wine sacks
Be orphaned Orpheus a brew a bitter sea grass.
This be a demi-god’s temple?
Rocks, bone and sand?
And no Siren song a this Ictus,
Me sword drawn lest he sing again.
Be this Ictus a spawn a Zeus
And a his own palaver be he not a the arts
And wine like mos’ but ta drink it,
What be common among less than gods
What savor ambrosia and
What ichor flood their veins.
What he be ol’ Ira’s pot and pan
His plot be but frenzy and rage
And he be by cynics wage, ‘Dog Bite’,
As what be the Greek’s Lyssa,
Daughter a the Night’s Sky, Nyx and Ouranos,
What in mini-skirt wore the a cur’s head
What outlook be the actor Vernacchio
What don a carcass of a Papillon
What dear, dark, pocky Tiberius revere.
And an emperor’s death writ
Hound the actor’s scent
What would play wif Ira’s mantel
His stench traced among the Semites
More so a his hot and fearful flight.
For does a daimona stink like our Ictus?
Or what dolt believe Tibi be a god
Much less our Canus?
Gods bear no odor a flesh unless
In such mantle they doth dress.
Peloros: But does not Neptune reek a fish
What wif them he doth abide?
Ekhion: No, asshole. This be an idle wish
For Neptune doth constant bathe.
Peloros: Then Hephaistos what in perpetuity
Be muckin’ ‘bout his forge.
Or again Hades for are not the dead rank,
What be other teloi but custom
What hold spices and herbs fend the stank.
Or Doth not Ictus bung perfect mimic
A Mephitis what gas rise above a swamp?
Not so much Mena’s cunnie
What want the caked rot a Pales’ dung
About the flanks a his sheep.
There be many which ways Ictus
Doth sink like a god.
Ictus: Enough! What god lean its divinity upon smell?
Doth not Aristoteles name sight and sound,
Touch and taste as well.
Peloros: Shall we then lick thee Ictus,
Or bite thee?
For we be ‘bout the sight and sound a ye
And ye be as heavy ta the touch as mordant ta the smell.
And thus we be imbue a thee by watch thy feature
And that be thy stink.
Ekhion: And so even as a hound track vermin in the dark
But naught by wet nose ta the ground
Ictus, we not be a your escapade ta Rome
For no matter how brusk thy aroma be
You be passed sense.
You what brandish a sword like a stick
Wif a toggle a sizzlin’ goat gristle
And offal secured ta it
Wif fragrant smoke but ta favor thy belly,
Sore, as no god favor thee.
Udaeus, another Spartoi: Peloros, Ekhion
Glance east upon the sea. Beyond the hump
A the homunculus with the sun at his back,
Two ships appear
Light a load as they ride high.
Best we scatter among these bones
‘Til this Ictus suss out who they be.
And the Spartoi shed their shape
And wif a clatter fell ta ground in heaps
As though so many augur bones tossed a Cumae cooze
And blend as they be wif the dead.
For certain two liburnae approach
And me wif the settin’ sun straight in me mincers
And what lollygag about its goin’ down.
‘Til not three actae be between me and the two scows
What I see Hilarus and his customary retinue
A Crassus cutthroats. But lo, bare above the rail be
The ruddy scalp and quick eyes a me dear Loquatia,
Her wif what coil like cobras
A many a gutter, hedge and thorougfare wif yours truly.
And fore upon the ovver skiff be
Me mates Captius Hectorus and Factitius Bilius
Wif his mistress Bodacia
What be runner-up a Julia’s appetites
In the great butt bangin’ tournaments a Cloacina
Where the sewers be host the Eleusian mysteries
As part and parcel be shit to fecundity.
And our dear Bodacia be queen what make Julia blush
And a Tiberian office what in hgh honor
Lead pilgrims ta Eleusis
Where even Cicero find the fertile measure a fuckin’
If not the pleasure. And our good emissary
Stay limber ‘bout the year
What she weigh not a libra
And what that be half pud
What abide prick like a quiver doth arrows.
Ictus and Loquatia Play the Beast wif Two Backs
Me heart leapt at such,
At least about what be its confinement,
And me prick be unfettered agent a me joy
When the prow a Hilarus fleet
Breach the lonesome sand a the beach
And me and me dear Loquatia
Fucked a clear day and night in the sand
Where crabs nibble and tides wash
While our passion dispose
Beyond all Pythagorean ration
And salt crust our padlocked lips.
What so long I be tuggin’ me slug
What straight away ta exhaustion
Me and Loquatia fuck on the beach.
Conjure Morpheus when Hilarus wakes us.
“While you two fucked and slept
Bodacia service the entire crew
Thrice over though the cabin boy be but six
And the first mate a leper.
It’s time we disembark
And leave you to your rituals and appetites.”
Note: Here in the margins and for some pages Gentilli O. Nelli and
other members of the Umbrian school have scrawled many renderings with
the figure of Bodacia being sodomized with various devices implements
of war and implements of ecclesiastical benediction by various emperors,
kings, merchants, saints and popes, etc. including St. Benedict. In a
number of illustrations the likeness of Benedict’s sister, St. Scholastica,
is placed upon the naked body of the Roman diva, Bodacia. The meaning of
such blasphemy is left to the reader. But it must be recalled that the
monks of Subiaco attempted to poison Benedict due to the harshness of his
rule. Elsewhere in the monastery compound, the frescoes on either side of
the west window depict Florentius' Attempt to Poison St. Benedict. On the
left, a woman dressed in pink delivers a poisoned loaf of bread to
St. Benedict in a cave. On the right, Benedict directs his raven to
carry the poisoned loaf away where it can do only harm to the innocent
creatures of the wood.
Bodacia be a Roman fame what inspire
Many a epic verse what shame sage Vergil
Or certain be no worse. For ta the kittim
She be Gaia incarnate
A cooch like the Gates a Cumae
Or the grotto at Praeneste.
A legationi what Crassus bank
What feign belief lest he confound the masses.
And to by pomp and coin right
What Vergil amend a this Aeneas chap
When Rome be found a Romulus and Remus
Suckled at Lupa’s pap.
And she be a Pompeius Trogus’ account,
The tale a the late King Claudico
What Bodacia be his queen
When from lack a heat under her ol’ pot ‘n’ pan
She take a shepherd’s farcimini into her roaring oven
What these a this rude employ be fit for lovin’
As wif their staff in tow they frolic ‘mongst their flock
And she be a right fit bird
What be left ta truck wif her king,
That ol’ dry turd.
But Claudico menace Bodacia, havin’ none a it.
And a spite his puckered pizzle test her might
What she alterate him ta a fly
What ply the walls about their bed
Where every shepherd, farrier and hod
A her fecund and supple cunt she be wed.
And what a shear chance a new empire be born
What o’er shadow Rome in all but scorn
And tarry out its thousand years.
And she be inspire a Nimius Monoesius’ Catalog Mulerium
A geneaology a rapes by gladiators and emperors
What by their own decree be the incarnate a gods
What be wry remark
For many stand and stink likes a you ‘n’ me.
And as Previus Varius plucked from Tacitus,
Princess Boudica, the warrior queen a Britannia,
Our Bodacia prate the stage what wif sex and sword
And lay bare wif fond and vengeful verse
What whatever come a empire at end come worse.
Or Atrabilus in his Concordia what noble Odysseus
Fagged a Ithaca and sick for the sea
Spread Bodacia’s bodice for sail and her hairpin as rudder
What immortal lines be pickled
As adventures what our fair poets calls ‘pickles’,
And what our Odysseus be clearly in much brine
Whist he stalk the Mare Nostrum.
‘And lo, Bodacia what see the Ithacan’s plight
Drain the cock a Neptune
What leave the godly reprobate quite contrite
And the sea lull as his pizzle entire be spent
And to the oars and upon the backs
A the Ithacan’s yardies
The sleepy waters be circumvent.’
But in verses 4002 ta 5009 yet yawns a chasm like a drain
Shape a fearsome maelstrom and a sovereign thing
What suck many a warship
As such in the heaven’s Nigri Formeni
Vigilant seek stars aflame
What gather worlds about them
As gyrate waters do the same.
And Livius Andronicus be known a his Odusia
What confirm by such verse what Greek guile
Not be apportioned by the gods entire.
But a little renown be his Tragodeia Bodatiae;
A fabula palliata what the heroine sails her fleet
Beyond the Pillars of Herakles
And all but outdone Odyssi in amours, blood and lies.
Or though slight a build and firm
She what test Apicius’s table in a caustic farce
Worvy a Archestratus as recipes be diced about
From Homeric hexameter’s epical redoubt.
Thus a clot a curds and milk be compare
A concourse wif the divine
Or slabs a bacon and grease wif Circe’s swine.
And mackerel be got on the third day
Took wif bread and wine
Before the brine beset the flesh and stay.
Or finely ground flour be as Ithacan youth
Dashed upon the rocks
Or what be poached amongst Polyphemi’s flocks.
But Dionisi Jackleg paste a folly what Archestratus
What “Be ignorant of mos’ fings and tell us nuffin’.”
What our ‘eroes be but a barley muffin?
This Archie-stratus chap not be worvy a Homer
Wif his baked boarfish, mushrooms, asparagus
And Parmesan toppin’,
What do speak ta hunger but as verse be rubbish
Fit fodder but for the bowel’s concoction.
And what by Ennius many a Greek dysfunction
Be sung frough the veil a Bodacia.
What a lad shag his mum and such,
And rash done up his dad.
What so Plautus, many a royal be done in by bad help
What very employ me mum had
When I be but a whelp.
For who but the gods know such things
What by Paris, Achillles’ heel the fatal arrow stings.
Paris, what his Trojan boner burst his tunic
Ta rival the wars we kittim calls Punic.
Yet, Paris what his pap, King Priam, once again
Be done in by the help,
The shepherd, Agelaus, what the king employ
Ta drown or stab or strangle the boy,
What leave him ta starve upon Mount Ida
What the infant be suckled beside a bear
The lad live ta be the undoin’ a the Trojan Imperium,
Felled by Philoctetes arrow who like Achilles too
Suffer a wound ta the foot
What appear, dear reader, the gods
Supply these Greeks with but a dearth a plot,
Couple a arrow wounds, two at the ankle
What one be left to weep and rot
And as yours truly personal attests
The plot a Ajax be exile and barbs
And abandonment upon some alien plot
Not native as our Hebrews wif their tale a Moses
What wif the good sense be of a happier end
If not for old Moses for Moses kin.
What I not be bitter
What need not a bear ta suckle nor a shewolf,
Nor be a ward a Rome.
What I certain be closer ta myf
More I be abandoned a home.
And here among these rocks and bones
Found a kingdom wif me wife Loquatia
What naught a Clytemnestra
For we have no daughter, nor I mistress
Much less a young one
What wif prophecy distress the polis.
And Hilarus’s skiff breach the last wave ashore,
And a scow second wif our two cynics
And our two daughters a Rome not far behind.
And Hilarus bound ashore wif two swart Mollosian’s
On a leash a either hand,
And swagger atop a berm a bones
Followed by his cutthroat band
Whilst Loquatia and Bodacia, and Hectoris and Bilius
What latter by their dimmer lights
In a shady spot keep a certain Sinopean cynic in view
But of not such fashion for there be but a few.
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