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
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
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.