ANCIENT ROMANCE, ALL THE HONOURABLE MEN 3
And here, as usual, she, knowing the farcical resolutions of Plautus, that all Jews have learned from Plautus through Mel Brooks, or at least Larry David, she came loaded for bear, or fur, and started railing against Antonin Scalia. Scalia bothers the white faced other white meat like Stuart and Rachel immutably as he is Jesuit like, already a mark against him, and his having brown eyes, would be better positioned as criminal or a thug or a clown, than to actually ask the question asked of Augustus, in that if you can make it up as you go along, then why have a digest of roman law mister Augustus, anyway, a unison only an Italian may ask. He has sided against something that bothered greatly our miss Grundy of the war profiteer set, and she was in full rolling eyes white trash diminution, with bemused Stuart waiting to see who he would hate, like Keith Olbermann for heresy, next.
I felt bad as wrote in IN THIS GOLDEN AGE, about a Christmas time night in which I sure had enough of Jewry Jonny this before finding Jerry and Elaine as loved by my sister still, and went to that, catching the last half of Charlie Rose, and one night seeing Charlie Rose speaking to the trashed italic brown eyed thuggish looking like me at sixty who is Tony Scalia. Ah, he was thoughtful and measured, not the monstered eyed lunatic that Maureen Dowd called him, but then she called God Bambi once, but we were all so young and stupid then, especially him. And I was amused at how Jesuit like he was, not having paid much attention to him, though he was called by a fat little pig man named Franck Rich, of the Joe DiMaggio school of living anti Italian stereotypes, which makes you wonder what he thinks of black history, or Purim or both. I found Antonin Scalia thoughtful and he, bless his Italianate hart--sorry must have been thinking about what might have been, as the Pompeiis abound and gather in droves, asks the question of Augustus why is it a digest of Roman law and can it be axed out like Christ in Latin because a amenable but prissy Negros ells his soul to the mri machine makers, amend what happens to the 2nd, but more important, 45678th amendments, and when they are vacated will a human toilet named Andrew Sullivan, like Sejanus before, call it all grand unless its his neck that is cut…?
I had enough of RACHEL, seen enough of this, and got tired of her when in med sentence her pretty little head seemed to snap when in mid show her going agonist Haggle was seen as verboten in almost mid phrase, and she as usual backed off. Our nigger lover was so aggrieved and was heartened by a fat washer woman named Sotomajore, under the major, you got that right, who did her bidding as she was expected to, and stood up for something allowed though it is un-constitutional, according to that pesky equal projection clause, But then Boston charley and his ilk have convinced us that niggers have been treated ever so well in Boston, just don’t have them bussed into near the southies, or the city will burn, that’s all
Well, it seemed to bother our talking bra that this was the day that Rosa Parks was immortalised in the senate by a panoply of the various beiges allowed to emerge bribes in the fallen house of princes. I still am waiting for the unavailing of the statue of Sacco and Vanzetti to be shown, can one imagine straga Pollozzi shrieking fained joy at that one, no, why that would make you feel bad about your imperials, sadness is beyond you smiling pork chop eaters, with perhaps Vanzetti, making true literature out of jails cells as Italians have been doing since Caesar, Vanzetti hung from the oraculum, --lets see how long it takes for Rachel to use that as her word of the day!--where a two bit fresco of signora Fortuna sits, him hung as a pendulum, how italic can you get all at once. But I had enough, as frankly, the mentioned boys of empire like pig man Sullivan, who find Obama a god until they shall need another temporary Jesus, well, it reminded me of another book never read by the Angela Davis, Al Davis UC Davis reading lists of good white folks, the Annals of imperial Rome, in which not the Christians, not the Greeks, but Tiberius, my long ago made analogy to Dido, our immaculate queen, demeaned that Virgil be burned. Cause it was written ostensibly about Augustus under whose shadow Tyberius no matter how many bribes taken and given couldn’t quite get out from under. It was this of all things that made the senate and the army start to connive to get rid Tyberius as Tacitus said, Virgil meant something more than some bastard child to a hated queen, and it gave the Romans pause to know that Tyberius and his henchmen couldn’t even let the ghosts alone.
This was written in first draft about August 2010. I am proud to know that I had an inkling of the underbelly of Obamaism which now causes the GE appliances with shows to resort to almost nothing left to say. This is the last part of AR-XIII that I will post. WATCH OUT FOR ROMANCE!
THE LION IN DECEMBER.
I see in Italia Julia at times here, a decency of Italian femininity now gone, she is independent, strong, wilful and sweet, not like the gas bags back home. She is whip smart, does her work without whining, as she playfully sweeps the wrens from the door of this boarding house as much as anything and then lounges at night and in mid day with dinners and suppers of her queerer personagi, playwright and poets, i.e. unemployed, with wolves hounded women who see Portia Incantata as their Amazon sergeant. I think of them ghosted women of cunt riddled Tuscany now, over fed and over wrought, pig women married, if at all, to silly effeminate men with the arms of little girls, who bustle all day of their self aware emigrant and importance they speak for women as a whole you know, don’t witches always…?, as these Medeas of the porticos barter and bitch preen and spit within their sausage eating lives, and slick lips, about Gods great and small, reciting poetry, always wrong, and I see them in my minds eye, these porcine hag women as down this ways of Italay, the gals have the cagiest glares and smirks of goddesses and are allowed to get old as is Italia’s mater, who here is called Il None, the old woman.
This is unlike Tuscany, where a woman in her sixties if lucky enough to get there, shall and I SAW IT EVEN IN THAT GOLDEN AGE of before, as things were starting to unravel, that women of an elderly sort would be wearing white pancake makeup and rouge, dresses fitting for a younger woman, throwing thankless agendas of orders and demands all at Sicilian help, sleeping about with various pool boys and handy men, acting the roles of schoolgirls, as here they would be grandmothers already in a noble mindful age. But, ah in abortive, circus prepetuus, Tuscany, these woman used married if at all as a social contract, a way to get ahead, Love is unknown, and god help the father that arraigned a marriage for them, this is slavery of the Persian order. By the by, they’re heinous the Persians, at slavery at this the Greeks are right, and overseers in Susa, write this own, are exceedingly vicious in ways even Romans are not, as after all, a slave is a bought item as much as anything, and why go through a slave like a broom, using it until it falls to bits, as even a Roman would say. As there on Persepolis, the slave is as much as anything a toy, a human trinket and a psychotic sexual perverted element enters the always bald head of the whip carrying house persona Forman of the Aryan Persian plantations, as they are cruel for no other reason than they like it. The Persian men see themselves all as Princes is a way that even Romans do not, they are the instigation of the Aryan mean of superiority -- and no offences, if a Persian is superior, then gods help the Humana race,--these half breed as half breeds always do, must and shall always placed themselves in the centre ring and damned attention, which is why the more --if it can be believed-- sanative Greeks, half breeds of half breeds by then, and with a dollop of the sunny Mediterranean to affect the incursions creeds of bovine loving Persians, think them hideous and to be wiped out. In this coming global super war, they already to Persian disgust, have aided by caveat and fiat, writs and briefs, by terms and out and out necessary surrender, with the un- Aryan Romans, who come from their last great victim the Illiates, Aeneas, farther than make the deals that now niggardly made Cyrus boys seem itching to make and be included into what is laughingly now called Europe, at which they and the grosser barbarians to their white trash north, the Dachas, are exempt now and if the Greeks have their way, forever. Place this down, if the Romans are seen as acceptable guardians to the Greeks, what must they have figured what a world of soot the Persian as masters would so create…?
I am not shocked to know that still and even sowed than before, that men of means came streaming into lower Italay, here called Apulia, though Italay seen as an insult here due to the Greek blood of the king for whom the peninsula is named, unless some is one of the Roman captains or Turin matrons mentioned here before. They come in her in drives and in lines, to collect low-level but blistering warm and sensual farm girls, as did prince Tyberion collect the field dove called Veronica, all that time ago. Now it is incessant, and though the stupid men of Tuscany think these wrens of the wheat fields of lower Apulia shall be kept berated and pregnant, they get themselves a nose full of trouble as the woman here, even more than the men, seem hard headed and stubborn and give into nothing. Many tire of the Alban lakes and the bubbling red Tyber, and its two chafed yellow and red designs, and return here with children, never to be seen in the sparkling divine team nets of magical led Naples ever again. Some of these hot tempered temptresses find enough of a yellow eyed fat bloated Tuscan giving out orders, and cut their throats, which hasn’t stopped the caravans of men from Tuscany coming here to find themselves a lovely ankle at all, as the women of scanty Lucan hills become witchlike, and here the gals have the lethargic aplomb of goddesses fresh from Parnassus. Here I think of Portia on the Seta again, which she can sue as if a weapon.
Then, --I heard my name. This, which froze me in the night. I had come down this way to ferry Portia to the theatre, where she was playing the girl in the italic love story so hated by the kind of fat porcine women I disquiet back home, or what was home, and being a senator still have a muscle reflex, and thus shall and will do anything for money still, especially if it entails little to no work. Standing here in the December coolness, I heard my name, called out by a croaking horse voice, Corenlio…!My Boy, my old boy! , he said, this voice rung against the slick cements and marble faces, it rang in my ears as my neck exploded with tingles of standing hairs. And it was as if a knife hurled at me that had just nicked my ear. I froze, though the night was not that cold. Again I heard my name, Cornelius...!, the old voice said, Cornelius Sabso...!, my name in truest Tuscan, no less, though it didn’t sound like the voice of a catcher of the imperial police. I turned. There on a stoop of an ancient house, all gray and stone and small porticoes and brick, I saw an old man stead in a night shirt on the gray steppes, with two granite Griffins, the flying leopard’s which are chimaeras and sacred to the indigenous Italics, lounging back was he, old as the sun it seemed, anointed as the steps. And brought down lower as once a Tinia he seemed, as he ever had been.
Cornele, he said with foxiness, but I couldn’t place him, I just saw an old pervert seeming dried out broken old man whose white chest was shown to the moon in a defiance against the cold that the old codgers hate so.
Sir…?, I said with some learned assembly grace, I had no idea who this at all was. He smiled and an old mans smile at me, he looked like a bull come to close to the city, that sometime seems old and forgotten by his tribe, or let by the young and virile bulls of summer who drive him out, to die in the highway weeds, as one can see in those self same italic fields from which the swells pluck their dandy Fucks. He smiled, sadly, an old mans face, a Chiron sat before me, old and feeble and mean and broken like the Plutocratic barge captain, but no, not completely I must aside here, he were as if a joker’s wild card game of Philistrata, a game of cards loved by the sailors boys, the harlequin in this deck, seemed to recall this man in my dark visions, as he summed as an old harlequin even loved by the Romans boys, in the twinkle left in his tired but still mischievous eye.
Cornele...dear fellow!, he said again stead there on the portico, It is me, dear BOY, he said, smiling through a lisp that seemed caked with wrinkles and recriminations as no one I had ever seen. Me..?, I asked, I really couldn’t finger him. He tsked and rolled his eyes, He comically begged, with hands outstretched, Really, Senator Baron, I am that forgettable, young man…?, --its me, Titus, --Titus Lauro…! I was stunned. A thousand waves of recognition spun about my bean, in front of mine eyes. How could I, I thought now looking at the old crow, not have recalled him at first blush! It was him, the czar of the senate, the king, King Lauro, after the ancient Italic story thereof, he was the tycoon of the senate once, brother of imperial rascal with delusions of Grandeur Mauro, of the Mauritian families, both going close to the moon in wings of paper not to collect ice on their wings, and come crashing back to the Tuscan earth below, from the moon that is made of snow.
I embraced the old man, whose chest as I said was incredulously open to the brisk early winder winds. But alas here in lower Italy winter is but a rumour at best, as it has kept the warmth of the Africa from where it as a province first blasted off in the immemorial items. Still knowing how the old adore their heat, this was amusing, though nothing was abasing about him. I saw him, and kissed his dry wrinkled parched lips, not in the diplomatic way of all soldiers who must at peace conferences show that the faggot ethic of war has become triumphant either, but in watch ways of a long lost son might kiss his old decrepit father, as they had and did before the Tuscan women and their suckles husbands started trying to warehouse the old as they do the poor. I must say a feeling of ennui came over me, a sadness at so viewing the once great and thoughtful princeps of the senate, war god extraordinaire. As like all Maurine’s from the marches where Mars was sacred, steady before me as if a an old man longing in a sun visable only to his tired but still streaming with playful malevolent eyes. My my Gracious gods, he said, To think on this night, with me in the midst of my night fevers, --[this an old woman’s code for something, an infirmity, and I am not sure what, but would explain his sweaty lounging in the moonlights]-that I would look up and see you, boy of the Senate,..gods furious, I recall when you were a little shaver, a mop haired kiddie, your mother guarding you about, ah what a dish she was, no offence, tall and thin and lithe and lean, what a woman she was, how did we, we asked, that that woman marry a farmer sort, so strange, we all adored her so, and wished to make her our wives, so different than a mistress eh, old boy…?, he winked and said.
I thought of Lydia. Yes, I said, sadly. He laughed his old man's laugh, as this old man, no matter how fallen, no matter how decrepit, no matter how devastated and demoralised still held his italic joy at life, as we all do have and cant be beaten out of us middle sea-ers. Dear Cornelius-- the noble and the im-corruptible, he said wisely and sweetly, So, did you finally take the advice of the dower men hand come down here to Regium to retire from your life of palatial crime, boy..? He spoke here keened with a moon reflecting glint in his blue eye. I must say cisalpine not withstanding I see more blue eyes here in the King's city than I do in dower but marketing up for it by being insufferable Tuscany, but that might be be cause if the Greek insertion of years now. The Greeks too find the siren Italian girls more delightful than the syntax correcting nags of the Lucan Hills, he said, And so they had no real intentions of stealing the counties up north as their figure seem to, like Carthaginians, dispel the cold. The now taken as choral group truth that Italay is a sun soaked play land and a paradise in the ancient idea of the word meaning a great garden of Eden like rain woods, where the earth brims with fruits and nuts is not completely true at all, and true less about Tuscany than most parts.
I laughed, well, I said, I suppose I am retired as much as anything, I am a fugitive, from Picots dogs, an émigré from the walls of the madhouse at Tiberius Castillo. He was not shocked by this in the means. Eventually if not lucky enough to die, all senators are taken in buy the bribery coast, he said a bundle of credos and reminiscences, Especially, evilly if they don’t have the sense to know they have stolen well enough. Ah yes, He said, This is at its core, the life of a senator, I stopped, he said, paying much attention when I got out of Tuscany with my neck. Beware..., he said to me, with an old snivelled finger up, when a life time of the devoted notion to even a party of the state can in a moment of madness be taken away by the cut throats of imperial power, dear boy, the knife welders are a sin to all political houses, you know. I knew, I said. A beauteous brunette with a body like a dancer, a specific type of dancer at least, came in and gave the old man a silver plate upon which as sausage and a kind of soft cheese they make down here and a goblet of wine which looked like a liquid Libra, a pound of dark black wine, a sort to me, that taste’s like schoolboy pencil, but which the older types like Lauro, I noticed, always did like. He offered me a bite, but a begged off signal was made, and she smiled a wide perfectly toothed actress smile at me, a darker skinned Regiumiate version of Portia, but more as the Greeks would say, Earthy, this a sin to the local dykes , with a bosom worthy of Versa, the hearth mother herself. The old man smiled and winked at me. She is my nurse, my wet nurse, the old man said in a way not as smarmy as it might have been, as after this, the old fool took the hand of the beauteous winch girl, dressed in white as if a vestal herself, who knew where she had come from and why, as his nurse and his watcher, and there was a moment of sweetness exacted here.
He took a half a sausage, which is made here as nowhere else in Italay, and bit it off and started to eat with what seemed to be teeth made of ivory of a elephant, an African clever innovation called dentures, but which has some comical aspects. I sat near him, awaiting for the show to end that Portia had graduated to from the Greek burlesque house now closed, I thought, and helped the old man to eat, the least I could do. HE was a giant once, yes, this old fool; he was a shaker of the earth, who could command armies with the stomp of his booted foot. HE WAS A GIANT IN THIS MAN, AND IN THIS LAND ONCE, STILL WHEN GIANTS ROAMED THE ERATH, BEFORE THE SALONS TOOK HOLD, BEFORE OLYMPUS--NO PARNASSUS, CRASHED INTO THE JAGGED EARTH OF TUSCANY. A giant lived within the now broken old Pluto I saw before me. He was virile once, devoted to the Patricia in ways the anarchists owned by the war consortiums and oil machinates, and goat owners and farm lenders, and sword makers, the blade handlers noted by the giant in Tuscany, are not, as spoken of above. I come out here at night especially when getting the fevers as I have tonight, I feel as if Icaria, flitting yup too near tore the brother sun, he said, And my temples all sweat and my body feels at fire, ah, the age of the closure I can see, a hundred years old I am almost, or passed it, who can recall, he said, another tear at the blood sausage in his white haired hand. I am sorry the finally got you with that crime of bribery, as it was, old boy, he said, but I shook my head, no, rather than that merest cage to cleans the house out for some other reason as bribery always is, no I said, I was seen as Impious, I added, To to the god man known as Aquila.
He rolled his massive eyes which stemmed as bright as ever and thoughtful and conniving as any student of the aster of Italian black arts Politics, Marco Valdo would have been. He sneered through lips made slick with meat and rice, and peppers and salt pork stuffed into this variation he added and told me, the innards of a sheep, the same sort sued for condoms in even sex crazed Rome. That buffoon, he disdainfully said, thinking of the man he only referred to as Quota, Oh Ye Gods,!, torture that rat, that Turgid booted Roman!, he swallowed, That, that misanthropic bitch, that cunt that queer little bitch, he cried,…I know to this day, he said, as I had opened a gash a wound healed , or maybe not so much long ago, That idiot in cisalpine Milania, he ruined the campaign and made me go up on charges, desperate to become the captain of the army as I was, I, a senator no less, this boy, this apparatchik, this cocksure queer of languid poetics, he thought himself the equal to me! Me…!, he sailed, the voice still powerful enough to ring off the dark colonnades of the areas.
I come out here at night, he said, and I listen to the symphonies played at the placed that sued to be Giro’s the dancing hall, the men there play the Violetta, the string box with a bow that the Greeks despise as they didn’t think of it, or can even portend to, like the Italian book, or anything else, that they didn’t see in Syria first, he said. Damn little bitch, he said with fresh undying anger, he thought he would make me a trophy of his like that fucking cunt Darius, and his Persians lions, hunting, you know he did, Hunting, while Alexander was at the gates of Susa, fucking punks, all of them fucking punks, women hearted bitches, they all are, he explained, and started to cough.
Silly little bitch Quota, he said with a sneer and a hatred that came off his lips like left over bile from upchucking, That queer boy lover thought hisself the measure of me, Me, the lion of the senate, they called me when he was still jacking off and belly rubbing like a Trojan in the boys pissure, I, he said with grand madness, I came to him and said he would pay he would, he would pay his due and his tribute to me, this smarmy little fuck, --[his weepy eyes glistened as he played the baritone in an opera that never ended in his mind] He thought he was something, a mere copy of our divine Canniolinus, ah but he was gone when Canniolinius was taken in the Roman guard, yes the Romans arrested him to show how brazen we Tuscans had become, we begged the Romans for theirs teeth an their cops and their imperial mp's and Quota was going into the woods, he marched not an inch with Gaius, though he portended as much. And, I, Titus then said, gloating with viscousness, I told him so that day when I demanded him as a visitor as all men given capital offend charges can for their casum, I called him to me in jail, I wasn’t there to write poetry like some saint, I told him this much, boy, I shall take you down, you faggot fuck, and make you taste the ground like you’d never expect…, I had the papers and the proof that our Tuscan hero was a Roman blooded bastard, and I told him, he who was fond of the African roots of the name Kaiser, the killer of elephants, that I was a lion, dirt bag, a lion still even then as an older man, I am anointed!--, But I am a lion, young fellow, Soine Lione, Aslanio est mea, and see how you can hunt me down, Draius, as I burn your effigy to the fucking ground.
There was a stage quiet in the December night, only the strains of violin and music hall bands played in the long distance darkness.
I …I said, I am sorry if I upset him,. I said to the curvy lass who was his nurse.
Don’t be concerned, she said, He rails once a night about this Quota, she said, He stems firth his memory and was so glad when we heard of his death at the hands of his lover that he broke his hip dancing a jig. We laughed. Then with old mans redemption the readapting of out living one's enemies, the best which one can hope for the old man with gray plush of hair coming from a gray pot marked forint, early in the days of old he was quite the centurion looking war man, who had taken over the army after the fall of his brother Mauro and as the liberal party. I Was a target to the young man without feelings or sympathies, he said, Yet I knew Quota was but who saw the elephantine party as the earliest ways to advance, Kaiser. I knew he had sabotaged the front liens, I knew he had made sure the call to arms had come when it shouldn’t have to allow the cisalpine dirt bag cunts to slice the army up, making sure the armaments had net even been securely handed out yet and damaged the whole thing as a suicide mission from the get.
He seemed alive as anything, did Taitus now, I write, the night fevers not inhibiting him, in fact they seemed like coal to be sued to make the steam engines of his hatred and his nursed grudges take hold, recreating him as the technocrat pre excellence. I knew as much, and I could prove it, he said, That tit mouse, that faggot, that --this Aquila--[Yeeyyeh, he said, the word itself seemed to make his lips taste poison,…] thought he had me, me, this schoolboy thought he could out think me, well, I was in fact derelict in my duties, in the idea that I hadn’t cut his throat when that blond sissy came to the front having fucked his way with Strabo, that other queer fuck, I should have killed that sun fearing queer when I first laid eyes on him, as Mauro had suggested, but was over turned, so much for his being a tyrant he…?
He continued, AH, BUT BOY FROM MY PAST, FROM THE GOLDEN PAST, recall this son of Tuscany, he spoke as warning…as liberali, as leftists we have our every scratch and our every drip of blood measured by the filth, who glom onto us, and make us into a party of pacifists and welfare givers lest these darkie cunts from sic-slay ever fight at a war’s apron, Oho, he added with joy, not me, war is leftist, I say, and I in a jail sclera as were you I take it, the only thing the left and right share as a belief system is the imperia, the police state, and I connived and I thought to and at the Tuscan Army treason trials, I was made to stand at I wasn’t going down like my pig trussed hanging brother, motherfuckers--as an old sailor in an navy that the romancers of Alba to this day can not pull or float a ship bigger than a garbage scow, I, he said, I went at Agggeeeela…stinking half breed peon poaching bitch, that I am the son of the marchland, I am a student and a soldier of Mars, dammit!, he said. He was triumphant again, --I took him on and made that green eye shade wearing faggot let me out to his disconcertion as I knew forever what he was and what he had done, and so a consummate fairy, he couldn’t do shit about it. And I got away to this tranquil spot to be freed and free for ever. He sanely smiled I am told that when Lucius allegedly placed the blade in his lovers guts, he said, Recoirdea Rexium Lear…Remember King Lauro, he said to have said, and when I heard that,--[he teared up] I knew my life had been of some worth in the ducts of the cosmos.
We spoke and he asked me what I had been up to. I said I was again Practicing law, for pennies on the dollar, sometimes free, which he found a fools errand. But the people deserved an advocate against these Greek drag queens. I said I had thought of the play righting and working at ate theatre sidesteps so close to his home. I sounded him out about of my first play in treatments, The Life Of CANNIOLINUS.
His wide gray blue eyes, callused with cataracts and made all the more strangely pretty, were now officially wet. He carefully sipped, the last mad king of Tuscany as they had come to call him, and he recalled the to me that story that I placed here as verbatim as we say, as I can as each word seemed to cut itself into my minds eye. This Quota, he said to show how sometimes one become enamoured of the gods and all seems to spin about a fluke orbit of the pretty little cone hither finger of the pratfall loving Signora Fortuna, again who we have saved Turan from a fate worth than being a fish smelling Venus, and Titus seemed to be the champion of the mad man, he said, But too, lest me tell you this, when all was over with Canniolinus, that night was it December or October, who Can recall,…I saw as the chamberlain of the senate then, the die casting oats eating know nothings of the right wing literately against me for my brother who they had made a monster for his crime of speaking against the needs and the desires of the always people minded continuums of middle Italay, I saw Quota the boy come out of hidden finally now that Canniolinius was as dead as a doorstop. It was over, and the mad man was brought down by the kings of bribes called a senate, he said sadly. And all was over, as even the people could tell who had started to mill about as Cortello, he said with distain, that red head jackass had the nerve to demand a grass crown triumph. We had become killers, boy, you recall you were there, but a boy and cant know what I knew, old then, we had become killers then, my son, --[he caped a weathered old hand against my chin and cheek and this old anarchist fascist, who even recalled what he was, made me feel like a six year old buy muttering the wise men of the assembly again, in an empire now gone and recalled by bought men selling crumbling cement to the farce that is the state].
I saw this boy that night, the old man spoke in a voice of ancientness as I hoped to god he would write his bellicose, angry, and defiant memoirs as always have loved farce don’t you too…?, and he spoke with a gravity not most or any in the political marry go round, a circus instrument of Pegusi that fly on garlanded poles, and he spoke with a sadness that god knows no Greek can touch. That night, when the blond pale Quota was crying mad leapt that his parson had been killed by Roman mercenaries paid to do this, no less, showing a certain irony comes with shamelessness no…?, as he ran into the woods around Laurentium, he missed, as a writer of farce would call, the best part. As Cortello faggily and silly lead this strange funeral paraded circus day across the ways and the vistas of Laurentium, a funny thing happens on the way to the requiem, and I SHALL CALLED THAT HERE NOW THAT I RECALL it, as I rectal it. As the fat bloated man in white, a true candidate, stood at the head of this parade with the beaten and bruised body of Gaius Canniolinius now lead as a carp and nailed to poles in the fashion of a Sicilian marionette, at which they are masters of making, at one proponent as the pretty woman and elderly old men and dice players and pimps and street toughs of Tuscany saw this variation on imperia which the always hungry and always needy Cortello knew as all Narcissus do, the only crime is to me, and to you there is no insult, he smiled and waved as if the dead faced people were enjoying this.
Then, a man in the crowd, a face in the dark, far from the torches of this triumphal, far from the white robed men of the elephantine party, the know nothing sorts who perpetually placed a proscenium of the past when their families were still wherever they were, as they are almost never in Italay these champions of virtue, took a ripe old squash I think, and hurled it at the procession, where the body of poor dead Canniolinius was like the Menvra that is often a plaster bassinet gal god who is carried through the old city’s stares. This I saw, he said, as the face of Cortello turned white, as he looked into the black outlines of gathered men a few years behind the sad woman who turned their eyes away.
But the gourd that hit Cortello on his breast was fallowed by another, and then more plums and things torn down from the trees and globs of mud and things picked up by the street. Suddenly the old men faggots of the right side of the imperial eagle, seen as an anathema even to the dull like conservatives like Strabo, they started to as such men of the patria do, slink aback when in goad in a fire fight such as even with fruits, as they fear war as anything that will engulph them a whit. The men and boys seeing this strange crucible took to welting the men of the senate with figs and eggs and anything, he said, As finally the joyfulness of this senatorial moment wasn’t lost upon the crowd that had been made for it. A circs broke out, he said with glee, and these old faggots of the senate house took off, allowing poor beaten and broken Canniolinius to come crashing to the street, he said, So, as a last insult from the senate house, but he, now a naked old man and a crotchety fell to the cobblestone earth as men in silk and purple and yellow sun priest flammen vestments were flitting about and truing to avoid the food fight that this less than despiteful requiem had come. I saw the café of fat bloated Cortllo as he had had his bulbous face smeared with street food, he sassed in extremis, unable to think of the correct bromide to called here as his sort always must, and to which he has defamed the black but once fun at of the political.. He grabbled about demanding laughing policemen who are paid in change and accepted to be occupation forcers of the oligarchy, a stupid look on his fat face, his lips still slick and glistening from her perpetual diet of pork meat and booze. He now defeated in ways that Canniolinius had not, demanded that the people who had hurled invective and slop at him be gathered up as the melee continued, and he screeched for honour, the old man spoke, Needful of that thing he is bereft of and thinks can be bought in bags like so much winter wheat. We spoke as old friends do, until out of the stage door came beauteous Portia, men in swooning sing song calling begging her to be their wives, or at least give them a night. She said she was ready to go home, and I got the cart and prepared to bring her to home. But I knew where the old man was now, good to recall my life didn't start that night in the tempest. I told him he could come to have dinner with me on Saturnalia, as I would pay Italianne for the meal if so need be. And he winked I had done well with my nets, as had he, but advised him I was only Porta's caretaker as the massive man I thought owned her would cut my neck should I get fresh with her.
If I have ruined the story , well, my sincerest pleas applies, dear girls you all, as if you couldn’t see the ultimate end to the tale, deareis, well, then Tuscany deserves you in whole. …But back at the academy, an idea from Syria as so much is approached by the first white folk of time, by the dower and awful Greeks. As it became apparent that Canniolinius as a man of ethics must do if worth a grain of salt, was about to take off on his beautiful black Pegasus alike Horse, and take off into the hinter streams as a mania addled enemy of the state, I as a boy then quickly walked to the temple of Concordia near the Carrere slate pits from which Laurentium was formed. There in then sombre temple aspects and the high valuated ceilings upon which the Tuscan arts of fresco were so applied, as to yet unknown and unseen and unmade by roman émigrés, I stood before the smiling Goddess of fate herself, she smiling as all wayward and ironic Tuscan gods so do, as opposed to the venial drama gods of the Greek world. Tuscany was gone, I knew as much as even as a boy, and stood before the well that is there in the honour of the goddess at which a penitent shall wash his face.
The little girls, all dressed in white curriculum habits walked past me as an older lesbian mater waked them along, but she was kind as opposed to some, and smiled a smile not dissimulate to the one held by Turan the apostle goddess at the alter scene. And as the rest of our lives was to become a wasteland of welfare bribe and commerce, all roads leading back to the consortiums who owned Italay now lock stock and wells, I thought of the divine novice Veronica and the empty cell at the edge of the quarry in which she, as if an animal, this is how bad the viciousness of overfed sorts can become, worse than Sicilians ever can be, worse than any staving men who keep their provide as the last thing to go, in placed like consumptive Tuscany, the first thing shed, was kept in Imprisonment. A girl the age of sixteen or less, was kept in a box as if a quarantined animal, or a crate in the kennela, as she had committed the favoured charge of the ante now, no not bribery, but Impiety. I looked yup at Turan, as she as all Tuscan gods do, seems that they were persuaded know of all things that don’t you know. And she was now gone, Veronica, the soon to be Turan penitent who would be swallowed up in a well of cement, as this had bcome quite the rage among the vicious hags of the town, to destroy the prettier girls, leaving us with the fat swine as a way to be more easily married, all any lesbian dreams of really.
But, at this time, that time, this same time, God help the fool who doesn’t stay close to the roads as set out by women who lunch and read as a joke, God help anyone who doesn’t speak as if in a farce, and doesn’t wait their applause and or laugh lines, God help the pitiable fool who doesn’t stay to the heart of the matter as set out by semen suckers of all hues, who stay in the shadows, with the white lung that comes from imperial marble dust. I felt horribly bad that the mad man had taken his vestal, and fucked her well and now took off with an army of men to draftee against the indefinable senate, so fickle with rot and spilled cum and wine as it had deteriorated into. I felt bad for our tracer hero, now doomed and marked as dead, in a senate now drilled with lovers of death, who found war and abortion as a similar cadre and a stand for both a malarial song for both as their feet were in silken slippers, far away from any turgid spills.
And I was glad that Canniolinius had lived out his creed as Quota his supposed best boy had gone way, fearful as his sort always is, wading for that destiny that is always later, by definition, as all is past and all in prologue, and all his prelude, and all is after all, fallen. I thought of pretty blue black haired Veronica, the girl of the white veil, temptress nun like none others, who escaped at least for now the fate of being drowned in liquefied rock, and thought of how someday the Italian earth shall open up and show a hell or at least a purgatory an italic idea of paying the boatman to go back and forth, and they shall find entangled lovers talking the death penalty of mixed stone that shows how virulent the overeaters can be, as madness and swords are puling into the known gut. And I as a boy would, as if at a play of Hercules, I envied the man his Mars--he like Lauro was a Marsh Lander, and his glorious noble death, as we after he, would be stuck with smiling men whose alliance was always for sale and who spoke their chanteys and their bellowed marks at those they called pariahs, always charging by the word.