Velius Cesinus

Carlo Parcelli

Canus Ictus in Exilium

[Dog Bite in Exile]

Monologue for an Imaginary Actor

Translated from the Sermo Vulgaris
By Harald Comus Earwicker
 and Carlo Parcelli

Chase after a dog and he’ll never bite;
Drink before thirst and it will never bite you.

- Francois Rabelais



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.