Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
What are we waiting for, assembled in the forum?

     The barbarians are due here today.

Why isn't anything happening in the senate?
Why do the senators sit there without legislating?

     Because the barbarians are coming today.
     What laws can the senators make now?
     Once the barbarians are here, they'll do the legislating.

Why did our emperor get up so early,
and why is he sitting at the city's main gate
on his throne, in state, wearing the crown?

     Because the barbarians are coming today
     and the emperor is waiting to receive their leader.
     He has even prepared a scroll to give him,
     replete with titles, with imposing names.

Why have our two consuls and praetors come out today
wearing their embroidered, their scarlet togas?
Why have they put on bracelets with so many amethysts,
and rings sparkling with magnificent emeralds?
Why are they carrying elegant canes
beautifully worked in silver and gold?

     Because the barbarians are coming today
     and things like that dazzle the barbarians.

Why don't our distinguished orators come forward as usual
to make their speeches, say what they have to say?

     Because the barbarians are coming today
     and they're bored by rhetoric and public speaking.

Why this sudden restlessness, this confusion?
(How serious people's faces have become.)
Why are the streets and squares emptying so rapidly,
everyone going home so lost in thought?

     Because night has fallen and the barbarians have not come.
     And some who have just returned from the border say
     there are no barbarians any longer.

And now, what's going to happen to us without barbarians?
They were, those people, a kind of solution.
Latiaaa Feb 2014
There's a party around the block,
Where flamingos run and eggs fall from upstairs.
The roof is tumbling and the pool is overfilled with humans and animals,
There's a zebra and ten monkeys running through the house.
****** ******* is rising everywhere,
To the kitchen and the bathroom, to the backyard and the deck.
Balloons are scattered on the floor,
There's food fights in every room.
There's a car crashed into the wall,
People are running around in togas.
The music is blasting through the glass windows,
Everyone is jugging boos and sniffing toxins.
The bonfire is sparking with Barbie doll heads,
The smell of burning rubber spreads throughout the sky.
People are wild with horse masks on their heads,
They're fist pumping and thumping to the repeated beat.
Males and females are racing around **** in the halls,
Paint ***** and BB Guns are being fired on every window.
Glasses of broken bottles are lost in couches and beds,
People are swinging on chandeliers.
The walls start to buckle and shake,
Cops arrive but are being tazered with their own tazers.
The house is being tee-peed,
No one knows why the tub is on fire.
The music starts to get louder every second,
Tables and chairs are being thrown across the rooms.
There are piggy back rides on the front lawn,
Drug addicts are polluting the air with taboo smoke.
People are sliding down the stairway with helmets and pillows,
Many of the people are hung upside down unexpectedly.
Girls get dragged into the bedrooms,
Fights are happening here and there.
Some people are passed out anywhere,
Others are bungee jumping off the roof.
Furniture is left outside,
Lips are locking in the closet.
Fireworks are going off while people are dunking their heads in water,
Twerking is being done almost everywhere.
The house is a total wreck,
And the sun starts to rise over the horizon.

I don't know about you,
But this party was something new.
Cedric Jun 2022
Continuous ebbs and flows,
Ongoing transits on the way home,
Nights of burned candles shine,
Gaining new insights all so fine.
Rainy days and espresso on the nose.
Afterglow outlines turned backs.
Trudging through piles of books,
Untangling webs of teachings-
Laughing through triumph,
Answering through ones and twos,
Thundering through the syllabi,
Information would gradually fly!
On nights you sleep distraught,
Nigh morning comes not for naught!
Stand proud in togas and caps!

Pressed flowers make for good bookmarks.
Riddled with nostalgic scents of days gone by.
Intrepid you stand as you close this chapter.
Marching onto the next page of your life,
Onto the edges of this pen shall leave a mark.
An acrostic poem for my friends, the primo batch of our university, graduates ready to tackle the world. Only through words can I express such pride for my peers, congratulations.
jo spencer Sep 2013
garlands on the beach,
togas like walk way gables,
gaze back expectantly
for our return.
Celestial anglers catch loaves from the shore
and the limelight wash delinates
the patience of man the fallen shadow.
Gabrielle F Feb 2010
my gift to you are these few little things
that i have managed to save
like moths who fell asleep in my
care
and
who probably will never wake
preserved in a yellow clothe, folded and placed
in a box beneath my tongue
carefully so as not to disturb the dust on their wings
in case they should
fly again...

(the rustic child’s toy)

morning as blue as the eyes
of god

upon the roof

entrapped in it’s
crisp clutches

love and other
shining, stupid things
teeming below our crunched
bodies

something like euphoria
(or much to much wine)
and

silence finally

watching planes
leave their billowing
impressions on

the flesh
of the sky.

2.(the newspaper clipping)

we sank into the ground
bellow the bridge
and pretended we were
trolls
scaring the
goatlings
that trampled
by

you smelt of oranges
and wood-chips

we
grumbled and smiled
into one another’s
available
skin
to keep

laughter from
penetrating

the web of
fantasy

we were spinning

3.(the photograph)

naked beneath
the togas of wool that
our mothers gave
to us

tears trembling on their
eyelashes

(before
we walked away)

there is now fire dividing the
space between
our salty smiles

neil young-
a tiny voice
tickling the smoky
air
like little fingers
of sound

4.(the letter to yourself)

no contact
aside from

the mingling of
breath
and other
invisible

body things

like the mutual
recognition
of comfort

when was this
but
most
moments
mornings
in
cold that
froze
words
between ear
and mouth, slowing them
like insects,
caterpillars
slugging along
a frosted
branch

imbedding them
in the space
between our cherry
faces.
Third Eye Candy Apr 2013
dashboard jesus was telling me how plastic togas make sociopaths feel something
and   he knew that i was saving the ****** for later
but only subconsciously. so...
my terrible driving was the mysterious way
his father reminds him
to take his
medication

i'm staring at the sun
yelling at texas

going sixty to destination zero
and the air
is gasping for air
even
with the top down

and dashboard jesus
has to scream
to make
small
talk
and that's funny
to me.

then i miss you.

but then there's some beautiful cloud
and an epileptic messiah
with a bad habit.

on backroads
that were actually
front seats.

this is how my exit was returning
so i never looked back
and besides...
who really needs that much
salt ?
Sam Temple Oct 2015
impressed by blessings expressed
my guess is the cesspool confessed
undigested fresh shoots shoot forth
at stressed guests with repressed ******
sweet caresses in the rest area
treat processionals with hysteria
fleeting pedestrians thin with dysentery
imagined thespians acting accordingly    
elder accordionist shakes liver spotted fists
at lists written in jest
by **** drunk sisters with wrist rockets
and bobby sock pocket protectors
knobby kneed sarcasm injectors
deflect suggestions relating to indigestion
and pander to the discretion of their own reflections
in conclusion the union mission’s position remains
to refrain from insisting on persistent revolutionaries
wearing terry cloth togas
in the merry moth of May --
Geno Cattouse Sep 2014
To tufted ground he fell but he was smiling on the way down
he must have seen it coming and cashed in his chips,Maxed out his cards, used up his frequent flyers.
The landing was in slow motion and he seemed to like it.

I saw the Last Mohican  pull down his Wiki yup. He had a knowing smirk. All in a days work pay me later or pay me now.A casino or two for genocide in lieu. But what can a guy do when his number plays ?

I saw Robin Williams Throw up his hands. God I loved that man but it was no surprise. Too many voices in that chock filled head.He and Johnny winters cut from the same cloth.

I saw The Man In the Moon wink last night.The orb burned bright and the loons craned their necks to catch a glimpse. The tide battered the shore meanwhile and the Raven croaked "Nevermore" in the silvery light of the shadow painted night. "Nevermore"

I heard  the gusting wind last night as it wiped the face of Kilimanjaro and dusted the Sahara in shimmering specs of glassy sand. A solitary Date palm surrendered tasty fruit to the grateful earth.
Joe Camel had a flying fig as he puffed an unfiltered and blew smoke rings thing of beauty and skill.

I heard the Howling wolf far up in the pines last night to no one in particular,just doing what nature dictated. He looked around slowly for approval, got none then sang his song again after clearing his throat.  

I smelled the tangy scent of burning Rome on the hill as politicians fiddled for the lobbyists and corporate constrictors.  The Senators donned fresh togas and drank heady wine from golden goblets.
"Let them eat cake"
Same arrogance, different century.

I ran down to the river to wash the blood from my wounds and seek shelter. A pack of sprinting  zombies in hot  pursuit. Good thing they can't swim. A pound of flesh each was more than I could pay and live.
I. incessant
R. ravenous
S.Sharks      

I pulled my coat tight around me and leaned into a stiff ill wind as
Down the road I go.
By the way what does an ill wind blow ?
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2020
.i don't know are you here to listen to classical music for the same reasons as i? i never bothered with any i.q. testimony or how: i'll abstract "better"... i'm here because... quiet frankly... the drums are doin' my 'ed in... thump thump thump... knocking on doors and the sound of hooves on cobblestone clanking along would probably be a sometimes of a: more appealing hope... and quite frankly the lack of vocals... otherwise modern music and the drums would require one to scream rather than sing - to pass a soul a breath through the custard scrutiny of a wall... why wouldn't drumming translate into gore-screaming sensations; - i'm here to escape the drums and the vocals... some would claim that: Vladimir Lugovskoy has the most serene wikipedia entry of a life: that's better lived - if not best lived... no chance of drowning further than one should: with an epitaph... i have walked many graveyards... i'm yet to find a grave with an epitaph... to me that's like... finding a unicorn!

for as long as i remember... i thought that prokofiev
couldn't better his oeuvre...
outside of his lieutenant kijé (suite), op. 60...
notably the romance piece...

there's a saying about a classical music station...
say, a classic.fm - that what is played is only a fraction
of what was ever produced...
how is a pop music radio station any different
to a classical music station?

it's not really... and there's that other saying:
that most of what is played...
is by a fraction of composers...
the "lesser" composers are only known
for a single piece...

edging toward 34 years...  and... no...
i haven't heard this piece before...
for me it's like a compensation for
liking wojciech kilar's: the beginning
from the film dracula...
oddly enough...
how these two pieces seem to
                "borrow" from each other...

but no amount of time listening to a classical radio
station would have brought me here...
the youtube algorithm spat out an: anomaly...

        otherwise during the day... there's that program...
from 1pm to 5pm... when people phone in...
and... they rarely ask for something specific...
the names of classical music
            pieces are already complicated...
they instead ask for... something akin to the mood
they're in...
well: who would bother remembering
the names - muzak express!
high-brow my ***... music...
that... after all... is... the antithesis of
modernity in that: can i hear any drums?
i wouldn't bet on the drums being included...
whereas most of what's modern:
if the drums are not involved...
does that imply: there's no rigor and standard
bearing to time the matter?

i thought i better call in sometime ago...
and ask for... christopher young's - something
to think about - from the hellraiser II: hellbound
soundtrack...

well...
sergei eisenstein's 1938 film alexander nevsky -
and what prokofiev gave for it...
notably: the battle on ice: 5 April 1242...
but this is new to me...

it's not like discovering: the moody blues'
spin on pop music with:
nights in white satin and... days of future past...
i have listened to the radio many a times...
but prokofiev's alexander nevsky suite
never made it... to be aired...
a relic - russia under the mongolian yoke,
song about alexander nevsky,
the crusaders in pskov, arise ye russian people,
the battle on the ice,
the field of the dead, alexander's entry into pskov...
there really can be worse ways
to spend circa 40 minutes of your time...

was there a composer that might have
celebrated another date...
15 July 1410 - my history - this sort of history -
perhaps even "god":
apology - i know it's rather... infantile of me
not donning the proper togas and
contentious smiles... of it's a wish for salting
the open wound matter...
of course: always: the "other" the "forgotten"
crusades...
bride of the crown: lithuania -
the pagans that lived into the 15th century!
again: circa.

next on the list: prokofiev's ivan the terrible
suite... but i'm guessing that's going
to very ambitious of me...
but i have allowed myself to stomach
miles davis' ******* brew and coltraine's:
a love supreme...
  prokofiev's ivan: i don't predict anything
less epic... the ultimate nerve-ending shatter...
but... probably not as...
philip glass toying with penderecki...
mahler... even in classical music there are limits...
when a bout of existential apathy seeps in...
and you have grown out of cutting your arms...
or chicken-scratching them...
you might own a female cat...
and forget to cut her nails...
and you pick her up wanting to find
a babushka doll insides -
find the ultimate bonsai tiger to the already
bonsai tiger she already is...
and she digs her nails into your arms...
all this while imagining putting a needle
into your ear while listening to some mahler...
or penderecki...
that's: well... the ultimate sacrifice for anyone
self-harming...
a combination of the two...

otherwise, in history... why did the northern
crusades takes place?
well... the calamity of the 4th crusade...
the largest army... the german army...
pickled barbarossa and... the drowning in the puddle...
and the loss of moral...
a crusade was going to happen...
anyway... if it didn't happen in the holy land...
it could happen in the east:
perhaps a mongol or two could be converted
too...

but: mein gott - i have to check if i have
any tattoos on my skin...
why? perhaps my "soul": no god no soul...
ergo summa summarum (grand Σ)
that other explanation for what "motivates"
me and what: doesn't make me think
about my heart: unless i'm having a heart-attack...
this membrane that shields my thought
from acquiring thoughts concerning
these thoughtless items -
when i walk: i don't think about walking
or moving my feet...

come the exclusive res cogitans...
coupled with the inclusive res vanus:
the thinking thing vs. the empty thing...
no god: no soul...
but there's still a summa summarum!
thinking is not the spider
and my body is not the spiderweb!
****: i thought you might suggest: ego, spider...
that we still have "ego theory"
and the counter: the germanic root:
prefix automated equivalent: self-...

and that no serious history would ever
take place... outside of the ethnic minority
reactions from the 20th century...
then i am... infantile... or imbecilic...
for looking toward the old forest...
with... not all crusades happened in the holy land
and against the muslims which ignited
Saladin...
some happened in north-eastern europe...
where the last pagans sat dormant...
at least into the early 15th century...

they have a name: krzyżak...
and the breath of the world: the wind...
blew these ******* in our direction...
because... barbarossa was pickled...
and he drowned in a puddle...
and what better way to invigorate a loss
of morale... and... be "left out"
from the 4th crusade party with richard I
and philip II augustus of france than...
turn one's attention elsewhere...
but by... historiological standards...

i be infant... having this tattoo of history...
i need to be told:
the only serious part of 20th century
history is: the m.l.k. oration!
some other... social justice cwusade!
wow! you brought the welsh with you?
i figured: what's the point of tattoing my body
with something akin to...
a Lale Sokolov's 19860515...
i'm still "there": as much as heidegger's
dasein allows me to be:
an inflated tattoo... it's missing 10 million
at least... to reach this number...

all serious history ever happend after 1950...
in terms of social change...
the closures of psychiatric asylums
and those... clown "fakeries" from:
bulletin lobotomy...
we all have that added spice in... all soz'
we wuz' knots not yuz...
yizzy? hasiddy yizzy gerschwitz
mild rash: what's that?
we can change the "jew" to a ***... no problem...
but i am tired...
what? "jew" becames a ***?
em... yiddish? lazy ol' sloth in acquired
english slang: ***- as prefixed...
omitted a punctuation mark: susan me!

             the following history that prokofiev's music
was invested in... "idiosyncratic"...
or... a juvenile delinquent case of:
keeping remains of a memory that...
oh: mein gott! doesn't include...
a... multicultural mandate!

from my perspective: this borrowed tongue...
i wouldn't be looking for
remains of the crusader armies...
but then again: barbarossa did drown in
a puddle and was pickled...
and the germans feeling they were being left out...
marched home and found...
their second jerusalem in Wilno...
i guess the mongolian itch was also the "real"
reason why... why loiter?

i have my own... what? history?
oh right... the past is me either being "romancing the stone"...
or the celebrated fate of the mamluks
and the janissaries? slaves or slavs...
etymology... i wonder how that excess
of an added E... looks...
alongside... what's to be eaten...
from: GERMANS... ah... the A and N...
said the "germs" to the "slaves"...

word: swovo...
                                            yabudyed!

it's infantile history though:
the only history that would ever concern
me as having come from the 20th century
and the furthest past...
no... not necessary...
the social juice and oratory speeches...
character before afro...
in english: i remember moving to england
aged 8... and... well...
being born into a monochromatic all white...
society: brave Zulu warriors...
under the patron saint of joking paul II
braved the berlin wall and the satellite
yoke of the communist empire...
and made it! into Poland!

this story... is a tree: that needs to be... ****** on!
liberally!
otherwise? no **** no ancient oak
stamp... savvy?

it's still prokofiev! it's still the alexander nevsky suite!
it's me starving... 30 years without litening
to it... it's... making sure...
that wojciech kilar... doesn't "borrow" from the suite...
otherwise: russophobia...
a quiet literal fear of the evil genius from the Muscovites...
while, simultanoeusly...
appreciating their sing-along and literature...
further alienation on the trench line of
islamophobia: apart from Rumi...
and le trio joubran? what's new in arabia?
law-rence?!

i know i know... having a body free from tattoos...
but a brain tattooed all over with these insignificant
dates... my bad... my, travesty!
i should best remember the civil rights movement...
in a country...
how many times have i visited Ypres?
enough to play sunflower: he loves me, he loves me not
using poppies...
i'm still waiting for my first ****** overdose
from the trips...

schematic: western europe remembers the 1st world war...
eastern europe: remembers the 2nd world war...
but that's still me being: infantile...
why have i been dealt this ****** hand of cards...
in terms of: what history is worth being
remembered... and what isn't...

whatever is happening to the palestianians...
under the israelis...
nothing quiet akin to what happened
to the ottoman muslims under the serbs...
and... what if the soviet union...
took the route of yuogoslavia...
when it collapsed?
what if the soviet union... happened like
yugoslavia happened?
upon disintegrating?

can you imagine?! there's only one praise
for the soviet union... the way it folded...
after all... the soviet union didn't do a ******* ms. sarajevo
as yugoslavia did...
pierdolone jugole... abused prefix term further
up north...
what's that? proto- / any pan- ethnicity umbrella
movement? oh... i thought the germanic plan
was working so well...
who failed? the british: these little brother
saxons... or the p.i.g.s.? portugese, italians,
greeks, spaniards?
i once upon a time figured...
so it wasn't about eastern europeans joining?
well... who was bringing the bulgarian
prostitutes into england? the turks were...

i am gnashing my teeth and peeling a suntan
to later burn over a fire and call it...
once properly stretched: the sort of leather
required for a pair of shoes!
or a belt!

am i still being infantile...
given i know historical figures akin to:
philip II augustus... alexander nevsky...
conrad I of masovia...
       ulrich von jungingen....
no... wait long enough: these people will
become myths... phantoms... ghosts...
no sooner than with the onslaught of time
in the ***** of journalism!
why is there a myth of Oedipus:
it's safe! it's safe to reap psychoanalytical
archetypes serfs of ego from
the couch-sitting bollocking-*******-herders!
it's safe... until the day...
when the crucifix will emerge as nothing more...
than a *****!

east? anything east of the Oder river
is called a... cyrillic! maestro!
a... швaб... a szwab... a "swabian"... a helmut...
hell-muttering of some ****...
he's not a ßaß... that proud term for a people
that came along after the romans
left these isles: which i am speak from...
little africa in northern europe: deutchland...
the pomeranians, the bavarians:
the швaбы...

as the old proverb states, my grandmother:
the only woman in the world that
always wants to fiddle with my beard...
i have never met a woman that wanted to play
with my beard... apart from my grandmother...
well... she says:

if you go among the crows: you better croak their croak...
that's too over-worded...
kiedy wchodzisz miedzy wrony:
musisz krakac jak i onny...
(no diacritical markers...
i feel lazy a'today)...
how's my assimilation coming along?
unique, due, unique "dude":

if you go among the crows: you better croak like
a crow...
so... given the russian is a bear...
moi... the french slav... ******...
well... i'm either the totem stork... or...
the bison... the european wunderkind!
from what i've heard? the letter: Ł?
well... it's as much kashubian and sorbian...
as it is... navajo... inupiaq...

when jung asked: modern man in search of soul...
i asked the materialistic question:
better or for worse: this has to be reworded...
if the breath became the soul...
and the soul became the spaghetti of daydreams
and other leftover rewards of thought from
having abstracted outside or inside
the triangle and the letter delta...
there must be a categorical impetus:
i.e. nothing is true... but i'll continue a...
roulette of will... subsequently...
i'll call it the corona-sigma: the summa summarum...
the crown-total...
wow... there's even a chemical name for it:
18-Crown-6  (1,4,7,10,13,16-hexaoxacyclooctadecane):
yes... the remains of alt-vater-deutsche:
words: notapprovedtobewithouthyphens...
still make it via chemistry...
everything else? oxford hyphen standards...
must be kept!

an imperative is not an impetus...
an imperative has the faculty of a sense of sight...
an impetus? blind man sentenced for ****...
how the hell he ever managed to find
the key let alone the keyhole that led
to the shameful expression of O of the door being
opened... and... guilt!
the pleasures bound to...
the least obvious investigations...
and by now... any drunkard's roulette
when the words come less as a precursor...
but more as: dear... still clinging to a "moral"
afterthought? non sic?

we were talking about prokofiev... weren't we?
lieutenant kijé suite - romance -
my epitome of: "sad and lonely": but god!
my most happy!
and... the newly found: prkofiev:
alexander nevsky - the battle of the ice...
and: how, somehow, wolciech kilar...
borrowed or played ping-pong with this music
to... originate with a dracula soundtrack:
the beginning...

me and my tattooless body...
what is this history? does it have to belong
within the confines of the 20th century exodus?
aren't people always speaking in the 21st century like:
but it's the 21st century!
if they say such things then the exodus must have
happened in the 20th century...
circa 50 years later...
and we're expected to behave like...
at least two centuries have passed since...
1968...
the inverted circus: hear the bang of a firework
first... then... the actual firework explode!

it's not something you'd want to experience
when walking down the Nevsky Prospect in St. Petersburg...
that i did pull off...
i managed to find a russian girl to fall in love with me...
she only wanted a spring and summer...
an autumn for a break-up...
thank god for that...
who is going to see russia from the people
i went to school with?
india's a bore... thailand is a bore...
the U, S of A... a bore...
we do have the cultural export frontline exposure...
what's new?
hell: if i want... i'd make it to israel...
but a month in russia?

oh it was worth the slap in the face...
even she knows it...
we were young, we were cruel...
we only had obligations for the heart to weave
a pseudo-mind and a quasi-skeleton we
would later call: the siamese crux...
and just before i met her...
i remember Edinburgh being haunted
by a ****** eclipse of the moon -
some would even claim it was the first time
they saw a marsian moon...
tinged crimean... borrowed from cardinal red...
and crimson...

some life... 13 or 14 years ago...
like i said, once already...
memory: cameo cinema that i love to revive
almost every night, when drinking...
because: it is not the most spectacular
a life that's worth... a backlog of autobiographic
entries readied: end of life sequence:
better scribbled than forgotten...
but an ongoing parrot's chatter... impromptu...
this the most unfortunate of love stories...
one where... we didn't allow ourselves
to have to mutually share: adult responsibilities
as to have to squander good conversation...
when the bills came a'rolling in at the end
of each moth...
i guess we allowed ourselves
the last idealism of love either of us
would be able to experience...

for a relationship where she proposed...
she chose the engagement ring...
and she herself decided to break it with me...
she would later... "i think i'm pregnant":
descartes: "i think i doubt" therefore "i am"?
the supposed contraceptive measures we took...
how many partners did she have
after we broke up? cuckoo or what?!
oh i remember the ones i had...
the ones i payed for...

               what's not cling to: loved-up and
still not having the sort of...
love with obligations:
love as... the most pristine failure...
that... children in love...
without the existential focus points to...
achieve the invitation of time... inclusively
of boy becomes man becomes father becomes
grandfather...
and not exclusively as: you and me...
i.e. me and her...
etc.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
let's call this busy-body James Joyce, given: pages 15 - 81, and the dates 1969 through to 1981 and the locations - Athens, Methymna, Los Angeles, Austin - then let's call in the plumber and see what the problem was.

S.M.P.E. - *Sulmo mihi partria est
- Sulmo, my homeland,
variant of S.P.Q.R. - spare person quartered reason,
and the sum of its parts - more or less...
is there a valid point to mention the relationship
between the Paeligni and the Republic? none, what-soever,
but we're buying time, so might as well;
and do i have any gratitude akin to the expression
quidquid hoc libelli, qualecumque? probably not -
let's go for a miracle, or charlatanism for a while,
December, Austin, Texas 1981 - and Dr. Preston
simply said of Ovid: contrary to what you may read
somewhere else, he's so human he tears you apart,
he's immensely creative, he's far more complex,
far wider in vision and tougher than most people think.
aye aye in the House of Commons, including the S.N.P.,
it had to happen one time or another, a wee ***-for-tattle.
Ovid suffered in the 18th but not the 19th century,
whatever movement was in the years 17-, default by
association - others would call it a cousin ******* a cousin -
or the "probably" of 18 b.c., Augustus passes the first
stage of the legislation and reform lex iulia de maritandis
ordinibus
and the lex iulia de adulteriis coercendis,
while all the senators are told to wear fishnet leggings
under the togas, to prove the smooth arrangement of
a change in political whiffs of mustard from the *** air:
pungent, really pungent stuff - disperses a crowd like
a bucking donkey on steroids and lysergic acid -
overload of heaven (carrots) and hell (sticks) in a timed
framework of strobe lighting - pray for the animal,
but not the senators. these days bachelors are favoured,
prenups are all the rage - obviously the intricacies of
Roman governing outlived itself in England - Nero and
whoever else were adopted - adoption was big back then,
no harem, just... well... "innocent" little harems in Versailles,
the joy of lying, that too died a little bit, gangrene lips
kissed it and a reality checked in under the pseudonym
reality, or was it rat-cages-rattled? i'm not sure,
you have to ask the porter - starboard me shimmy
and timber... a few apologias later we see the mascara drip
from Pont de l'Alma and Charlie Chaplin on the drums
singing: Harry and Will, your mamma will not be seen
*******, better dead than red, yoddelay yoddelay yo.
well, if you want to instil Louis XIV boudoir ambitions,
the mamma has to go, with the cheap Rolex guy from
Knightsbridge - what a tacky place, you can just imagine
walking through it eating tacos. via: by the way,
alcohol is twice as potent and 100x more enjoyable in
terms of sedation than anti-psychotics, and D was on them -
sadism is a kaleidoscopic venture, you never know when
the pusher will come, yep, the pharmaceutical pusher,
gets orders like any dumbo on the street corner from
the mafia and the Vietnam kids minding the business
in a semi-detached loft - pushers everywhere, even if
in "theory" they want to distance themselves from Big Pharma,
it's the circle of life - otherwise we'd have thomas more's vision,
i'd drop the -e, and add an extra -r. Ovid: back when
writing poetry was deemed anti-social - you could write that,
it's not the Homeric standard of adventure and heroism
and bad denture - back when writing poetry was deemed
anti-social - good enough for the internet to pop up,
yesterday i was talking to a U.P.S. a.i. - and she understood
by stressed elocution - next, more, next, more, repeat,
face-to-face time also a big downer, old school face to face -
people need pixel fencing - pixel fencing is the way to go -
there's one behind those fly eyes - also pixel - just cover
your eyes with a t-shirt and stretch it - fly eyes -
but now from the man herself -
transmute the *** of your lover whenever you mention
him: write 'her' instead
(book 3)... wait a minute,
isn't that a shorter version of what's cited in the Gospel
of St. Thomas? when you make the two one,
and when you make the inner as the outer... you
make the male and female into a single one...

to be honest... if these guys are implying what i think
they're implying, i'd rather do a Jonah - and then turn
around and say: tell that to the mandrakes!
Tejas Srivastava Apr 2016
Ts
Trust, ties, tears, tears;
With setting rising sun,
just Truth remains.

Trinity's traits transcending to transcript,
The temple trusting the tryst to tall togas;
Truces, tangs, tangles, tags, teams,
with tricks or trills are tackled, tamed by
Those trained to taste the towering truth.

Taints, taboos, tattoos;
With cycling of seasons,
only Truth stays there.

Transgressing traps, talons, treasons,
Thorns, thongs, tides translucent;
These tapes, talks, tales transient,
Are trifles, tickles, trivial, trite;
To tribes treading the track of truth.

Talents, tacts, top techs;
Against infinite labyrinth,
Truth alone can pass.

Taut troops trotting the toiling trek;
Taunting, tapering the tonnage of trash;
Transversing tough tests of tempts,
Are trails of tiring trials, For
Those who treble the tone of truth.

Thrashing traumas to transfixing trance;
With beast or with beauty,
Truth belongs to soul.

Through love and death,
the true timeless tapestries;
Life translates to truth,
and becomes a happy moment;
The moment which is forever.
Alex S Dec 2016
Boadicea came into my quarters from the cold,
Took off her battle robes and her brooch of soiled gold,
Rinsed off the crimson stains from the blade of her knife
Then flung herself into my arms as she cried all through the night.

Her teardrops couldn't **** the fire in her eyes.
Each drip crawled down her skin, so blemished and so dry.
She scratched at every wound and buried battle scar
Until we were silent, staring up unto the stars.
But as I wet my lips to blow out the flame
She sealed my mouth and whispered my name.

She went on to tell me how the empire will fall.
How the togas will soon crumble within her kingdom walls,
How every man will no longer call the heavens their home
And stop begging for their names to be engraved in stone.
She said, "Come, be my magic and the power in my hands -
Tell me there's life left in this promised land!"
And just as the moon went out of our sight,
She fell onto the floor and howled with all her might:
"To all the Gods of things good and right
Don't you dare turn out my lights!"

But some sunsets later she stumbled back in
Looking ragged, holding unknown medicines.
She'd lost her strength, seen her comrades die
But my arms and magic were sharply denied:
"I won't live to watch my men suffer as they bleed
A short and sweet release is my final plead -
So let me free now.”

And she turned out her lights
As we cried.
wordvango May 2017
in Ali Ahkbars chariot rode
Iscariot to the ruins of
Rome
had ten gold pieces
in his hand
or twenty forget the rhymes
it's more important we change the
elegy the caricatures to fit modern modality
he met Julius who had  not been born, still the story is better if,
and the Editors  of the Bible know this , will edit it
lets say a real young Julius
with Cleopatra sultry and suave dressed in the best  
designers of the time Togas
his power ascending
had no idea
the thumpers would thump
the Nazis would come he had Cleopatra's ***
on his mind
and say
history has been remembered ,
or not,
let's make haste of frugality
and really get down to the
gist of it,
brutality, fear of the unknown,
worship of gods we dont know exist.
If I were around then, who is to say I was not,
I'd slap Cleopatra on the *** pour wine down her throat
and watch Julius make an orange smoothie
out of Icarus or **** I forget , who he was.
Started with an I.
En el precio, el favor; y la ventura,
venal; el oro, pálido tirano;
el erario, sacrílego y profano;
con togas, la codicia y la locura;
en delitos, patíbulo la altura;
más suficiente el más soberbio y vano;
en opresión, el sufrimiento humano;
en desprecio, la sciencia y la cordura,
promesas son, ¡oh Roma!, dolorosas
del precipicio y ruina que previenes
a tu imperio y sus fuerzas poderosas.
El laurel que te abraza las dos sienes
llama al rayo que evita, y peligrosas
y coronadas por igual las tienes.
Those Pharaohs
knew that when the
winds blew
it was time to tuck
the togas in.

life, Jim,
is not a Toblerone shaped
pyramid amid the desert sands

they say many hands make light work,
not so!
when the bulb's busted,
you're basically ******* and left in
the dark.

Did Pharaohs wear togas?
These are modern English translations by Michael R. Burch of seven Latin poems written by the ancient Roman female poet Sulpicia, who was apparently still a girl or very young woman when she wrote them.



I. At Last, Love!
by Sulpicia
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

for Carolyn Clark, who put me up to it

It's come at last! Love!
The kind of love that, had it remained veiled,
would have shamed me more than baring my naked soul.
I appealed to Aphrodite in my poems
and she delivered my beloved to me,
placed him snugly, securely against my breast!
The Goddess has kept her promises:
now let my joy be told,
so that it cannot be said no woman enjoys her recompense!
I would not want to entrust my testimony
to tablets, even those signed and sealed!
Let no one read my avowals before my love!
Yet indiscretion has its charms,
while it's boring to conform one’s face to one’s reputation.
May I always be deemed worthy lover to a worthy love!

A signatis tabellis was a letter written on wooden tablets and sealed with sealing-wax.



II. Dismal Journeys, Unwanted Arrivals
by Sulpicia
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

for Carolyn Clark, who put me up to it

My much-hated birthday's arrived, to be spent mourning
in a wretched countryside, bereft of Cerinthus.
Alas, my lost city! Is it suitable for a girl: that rural villa
by the banks of a frigid river draining the fields of Arretium?
Peace now, Uncle Messalla, my over-zealous chaperone!
Arrivals of relatives aren't always welcome, you know.
Kidnapped, abducted, snatched away from my beloved city,
I’d mope there, prisoner to my mind and emotions,
this hostage coercion prevents from making her own decisions!

Arretium is a town in Tuscany, north of Rome. It was presumably the site of, or close to, Messalla’s villa. Sulpicia uses the term frigidus although the river in question, the Arno, is not notably cold. Thus she may be referring to another kind of lack of warmth! Apparently Sulpicia was living with her overprotective (in her eyes) Uncle Messalla after the death of her father, and was not yet married.



III. The Thankfully Abandoned Journey
by Sulpicia
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

for Carolyn Clark, who put me up to it

Did you hear the threat of that wretched trip’s been abandoned?
Now my spirits soar and I can be in Rome for my birthday!
Let’s all celebrate this unexpected good fortune!



IV. Thanks for Everything, and Nothing
by Sulpicia
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

for Carolyn Clark, who put me up to it

Thanks for revealing your true colors,
thus keeping me from making further fool of myself!
I do hope you enjoy your wool-basket *****,
since any female-filled toga is much dearer to you
than Sulpicia, daughter of Servius!
On the brighter side, my guardians are much happier,
having feared I might foolishly bed a nobody!

Upper-class Roman women did not wear togas, but unfree prostitutes, called meretrices or ancillae, did. Here, Sulpicia is apparently contrasting the vast difference in her station to that of a slave who totes heavy wool baskets when not sexually servicing her masters. Spinning and wool-work were traditional tasks for virtuous Roman women, so there is a marked contrast here. Sulpicia doesn’t mention who is concerned about her, but we can probably intuit Messalla was one of them.



V. Reproach for Indifference
by Sulpicia
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

for Carolyn Clark, who put me up to it

Have you no kind thoughts for your girl, Cerinthus,
now that fever wilts my wasting body?
If not, why would I want to conquer this disease,
knowing you no longer desired my existence?
After all, what’s the point of living
when you can ignore my distress with such indifference?



VI. Her Apology for Errant Desire
by Sulpicia
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

for Carolyn Clark, who put me up to it

Let me admit my errant passion to you, my love,
since in these last few days
I've exceeded all my foolish youth's former follies!
And no folly have I ever regretted more
than leaving you alone last night,
desiring only to disguise my desire for you!



Sulpicia on the First of March
by Sulpicia
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

“One might venture that Sulpicia was not over-modest.” – MRB

Sulpicia's adorned herself for you, O mighty Mars, on your Kalends:
come admire her yourself, if you have the sense to observe!
Venus will forgive your ogling, but you, O my violent one,
beware lest your armaments fall shamefully to the floor!
Cunning Love lights twin torches from her eyes,
with which he’ll soon inflame the gods themselves!
Wherever she goes, whatever she does,
Elegance and Grace follow dutifully in attendance!
If she unleashes her hair, trailing torrents become her train:
if she braids her mane, her braids are to be revered!
If she dons a Tyrian gown, she inflames!
She inflames, if she wears virginal white!
As stylish Vertumnus wears her thousand outfits
on eternal Olympus, even so she models hers gracefully!
She alone among the girls is worthy
of Tyre’s soft wool dipped twice in costly dyes!
May she always possess whatever rich Arabian farmers
reap from their fragrant plains’ perfumed fields,
and whatever flashing gems dark India gathers
from the scarlet shores of distant Dawn’s seas.
Sing the praises of this girl, Muses, on these festive Kalends,
and you, proud Phoebus, strum your tortoiseshell lyre!
She'll carry out these sacred rites for many years to come,
for no girl was ever worthier of your chorus!

Sulpicia is one of the few female poets of ancient Rome whose work survives, and she is arguably the most notable. Other ancient female poets associated with the Roman Empire include Perilla, a Latin lyric poetess whom Ovid deemed second only to Sappho but may have been a scripta puella (a "written girl" and male construct); Aelia Eudocia, a Byzantine empress; Moero, another Byzantine poetess; Claudia Severa, remembered today for two surviving literary letters (and one of those a fragment); Eucheria, who has just one extant poem; Faltonia Betitia Proba, a Latin Roman Christian poet of the late empire who left a Virgilian cento with many lines copied directly from Virgil with "minimal" modification; Julia Balbilla, who has four extant epigrams; and Caecilia Trebulla, who has three. There was also a second Sulpicia, known as Sulpicia II, who lived during the reign of Domitian, for whom only two lines of iambic trimeters survive.

Alas, it seems there was little little effort wasted on preserving the work of female poets in male-dominated Rome!

The original Sulpicia was the author of six short poems (some 40 lines in all) written in Latin during the first century BC. Her poems were published as part of the corpus of Albius Tibullus. Sulpicia's family were well-off Roman citizens with connections to Emperor Augustus, since her uncle Valerius Messalla Corvinus served as a commander for Augustus and was consul in 31 BC.

My translations were suggested by Carolyn Clark, to whom I have dedicated them. Her dissertation "Tibullus Illustrated: Lares, Genius and Sacred Landscapes" includes a discussion of Sulpicia on pages 364-369 and is highly recommended.

Keywords/Tags: Sulpicia, Latin, Latin Poems, English Translations, Rome, Roman, Cerinthus, Albius Tibullus, Uncle Valerius Messalla Corvinus, birthday, villa, Augustus
Onoma Feb 2019
white

togas

that

fold.
Yenson Feb 2019
The thieves and Pigs of Wigan-fare
donned togas and hemlock laurels in gutters and drains
come you all beasts of Ingland and be baptised in sins
we're all equal and tyrant man shall be overthrown

Sing our songs and we'll teach you the twist
Magical thinking is a wonderful thing for you farm folks
Who made the Liars into liars, who put words into mouths
trumpeting in shameless disgrace, ours is to to drive wedges

Come study Art , we'll teach you Creativity of the ******
drama an sleath eating your minds, illusions to make you blind
you become top dogs, snarling in power as we leash you tight
while you're planting doubts we've figured you mugs well baked

So beasts of Ingland, beasts of Ireland, beasts of every land
tyrant Jesus shall be overthrown for he is elitist and dangerous
We the thieving pigs are Robin Hoods, come join our brave world
the doors of the theatre of Fools is open, come  join the delusions
we make the drama..........
Onoma Feb 2020
Diogenes was the

first punk--an ancient

Greek stoic philosopher.

who pre-valued shock,

before it became affected.

spitting, barking, *******,

******* in public--living in

a giant cracked clay ***.

spray painting dyslexic aphorisms,

and riddling the togas of fellow

philosophers with safety pins.

**** as a dog, hard as nails--

busting in on Plato's lecture

just to topple his word-castle

with a storming remark.

by the time Alexander The Great

got to him, he was already a famous freak.

so Alexander proposed he provide him

with anything he wished.

Diogenes said something like: get the ****

out of my way, you're blocking the sun.
Babatunde Raimi Aug 2020
My mind is clouded with layers of hate
With the deadly accuracy, you feasted on my soul
And turned my heart to your secret stool
Inside your stony heart is a fortress
Buried therein are victims of lust
What a way to loose it all in one bang

In that temple you have buried destinies
In beautiful nightmares you possess and take them to Vegas
Your enclave of no return, where you prey on them all
There I was, a permanent resident and a slave to infatuation
You  laid in wait and made me  weak, vulnerable
In your world, Delilah is a saint, a learner

I lost all, including my sense of reasoning and judgement
I was lost to your intricate maneuvers
My heart still palpitates at the thought of you
In a desolate world desolate with mundane things
I wish I listened to the voice of wisdom
If only I could turn back the hand of time...

A Chameleon you are, though  masqueraded as a saint
Putting on class acts;  outshining Hollywood's finest
For the want of love, I lost my love
Now my heart rages like the tempest sea
I am now clad in a garment with togas of bitterness
Does true agape love really exist in this wicked world?

If I could, I would lock you up in hell
And caste you beneath to yonder place
Thereafter will I protect my heart from your kind
Cold blooded Leach designed to drain
Once upon a time, you were my morning star
Never again will I trade love for lust.
Babatunde Raimi Feb 2020
Don't let them diss you
It's because they lost theirs
Your virginity is your pride
A special gift for your better half
They will pay in diamond for it
Don't get carried away
Like a treasure, keep it safe

I know you didn't sign the oath
The oath of celibacy
****** purity requires self control
Only the wise virgins can relate
Such a person is a diamond
I wish I didn't loose mine to Delilah
This, my greatest life regret

If your alignment hasn't been ruptured
You are fortunate to be a ******
Be smart, homely with a good character
Laced with the fear of God
My dear, you are a rarity, a jewel
You kept your own in immoral times
You are only fit for Kings and Queens

Did you loose it to violence?
****, ******, molestation?
Or deceitful marriage proposals?
Keep your heads up, you're still a treasure
Our jewel of inestimable value, our pride
Shame to your abusers
The blood will visit their generations yet unborn

All those sitting on "Agbo"
How market? Nothing like original
Whether you are a foolish or wise ******
Promise yourself you'll never let go
Until the time is right
Under a perfect condition
Sealed with conjugal oaths

If your ***** is broken
Or you already had your first
If you couldn't keep yourself
Don't discredit those holding strong
Stop the set-ups, stop the manipulations
A praying ****** can move mountains
Surely, their prayers changes things

We are in the last days
Where everything revolves around ***
What has a phone jingle to do with nudes
Advertorials covered in togas of ***
*** for grade, grade for ***
Hiring officers are not excluded
This has even crept into our Holy temples
God forgive...

Without character, you are a foolish ******
With character, you are a wise ******
If your character determines your altitude
Your purity will open doors eternal
And the Master Creator will honour you
I wish I never lost it
If I can travel back in time
I will keep the bed undefiled

Holding on in a perverse generation
Worse than ***** and Gomorra
Twenty-One gun salute to you
This is as important to men as to women
Keep your holy grail of pride
And your spouse will love you forever
Terms and conditions apply, please!

— The End —