THEIRSTORY.

Always take it graciously when someone doesn’t out and out censor my works, as was done by of all people the woppish two who made sure that Italians are never much covered for as are being ignored by says Scott Pelley no less, tunneled out of snow banks and mudslides so we can hear from perpetually old haggard unmarred women, still a moniker to the lesbos, as no one that ugly can be married even farcically queer right…so never, I taught by nuns, decorum, try to really smear it on thick or be bothersome. Still, those Italians are dealing with terremoti that are never a good sign, as even Caesar knew the way to read the cracks of the earth, and despite that to the patria, what my father called company wops are out there, like Madonna and Robert De Nero acting the part of button men for a hag cow queen of cunts who thought we had a gypsy problem did miss Himmler, and then unleashes the hags on everyone.

SO, WITH THAT IN MIND, here is my twelve page play based upon the enchanting Ovidian story of Apollo and Daphne and theirs, and someone tell me what I am missing as in this age of Hillary living out the road company version of paradise lost, I am at wits end, and not juts because of a low rent fever, or should I merely as my brother tells me, tell self important no bodies to always just go fuck themselves. this stinks of con he says, but thene again, like Chet Atkins in support you’re local gunfighter, greets everyone with a suspicious what's your angle…?,  as roman credo. See as having been taught but jurist priests, I hate it when affirmative action white girls try to tell me I don’t know the story of Apollo and Daphne, I took this personally,  as more than just mre rejection, or Ovid, as the queers made me read a different fun with dick and Jane than you did and the difference, as Petronius said, is always the leach. as I’m not a white woman not a democrat, not did I vote for Bill Clinton and pretend didn’t, and so, dolls, I wasn’t shocked when in the middle of your spate of Jewish nobility another wop, this time Scorsese got it on the teeth as you tried to not remember the fires you once stoked and the farces you one put on. TELL the white kids overweening on protest, with nary a black man it appears seeing wanting to march for baracedesless Hillary, there all in jail, when it was Bush like Barzini all along, pulling this oxcart all along. And too Barry the fairy halted immigration too, and no one cried and white girls didn’t march, amusingly enough, something all the difference is the whip. As but that was in unromantic ungodly year 2011, as democrats are Sanctimonious but they aren’t ever married to any of this shit.

Note that on the over baptized white girl version, there is no moment of green laurel, and he is receded to mere Sunday school polemic and thou shall not diatribe and mortality tale, so sad to see done to what is for all intents and purposes a Romanized myth in the hands of Ovid, Bill Clintons Virgil bless his diabolical little heart. Hillary as I said lives out her more satanic creed of always getting back and even. And away we go….

Apollo and Daphne 

Daphne was a beautiful nymph and the daughter of the river god, Peneus. She longed to remain free and unmarried and prayed to her father to help her remain so. Apollo was the God of sun, music and knowledge. One day, he foolishly mocked Cupid for playing with bows and arrows - weapons which he believed should only be handled by experienced warriors like himself.
Cupid took revenge upon Apollo by striking him with one of his arrows the moment Apollo feasted his eyes upon the nubile and beautiful Daphne. This made him fall in love with her instantly. Apollo went into pursuit mode immediately, not realizing that he just fell in love with a girl who wanted to remain free forever. This was Cupid's cruel revenge.
Apollo chased after Daphne relentlessly. She teased him by flirting with him, only adding more fuel to his fire. One day, Apollo began running after Daphne and while running away, Daphne prayed to her father to turn her into a laurel tree. Just as Apollo caught up with her, her lower body began transforming into the bark and her arms into the branches. The story goes on to say that Apollo worshiped the laurel tree for the rest of his life.
The moral of the story is a commentary on pursuing pleasure for its own sake: "Those who love to pursue fleeting forms of pleasure, in the end find only leaves and bitter berries in their hands."

To

ArticulatePlays@gmail.com

 Feb 3 at 2:58 PM

Dear Articulate plays. 

Given a heads up about your festival I would like to send you this short play based upon the missing and lost works of the Etruscans. put into Obscurity by the great monsters of history the Greeks and the Romans, and just beginning to be discovered. Mine is an italic retelling of the famous scene in Ovid Apollo and Daphne. I am Anthony Acri. antonyacri@yahoo.com. 1-724-###-####

Anthony Acri Ancient Romance, an historical Novel of Tuscan Italy. http://booklocker.com/books/5884.html www.antoniusradiocomix.blogspot.com

To

Anthony Acri

Feb 3 at 8:27 PM

Hello Anthony,

Thank you for submitting to Articulating the Arts. Can you please tell me which of the stories from our website inspired this play? I need to share that information to the Reading Committee.

Best,

Cat Parker

To

ATC Plays

Today at 4:45 PM

yes, thank you for any consideration, I thought I had connected  this play is based upon the tale of Apollo and Daphne as found in Ovid a tale of a quarry and a predator. Anthony. 

Anthony Acri Ancient Romance, an historical Novel of Tuscan Italy. http://booklocker.com/books/5884.html www.antoniusradiocomix.blogspot.com

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To

Anthony Acri

Today at 5:24 PM

Thank you for your response. Unfortunately, I do not think your play seems related to the story of Apollo and Daphne as told on our website. As one of the criteria for submitting to this production is the connection between the story and the play, this will be weighed by the reading committee. If you'd prefer to look at our stories and either tweak your play to match, or write a new story, we'd be happy to hear from you. Or, you can leave this play in the running, with the understanding that it is not based on any of our stories.

Please let me know which you'd prefer to do!

Peace

Cat Parker

Artistic Director

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Articulate Theatre Company Play Submissions

Anthony Acri 

To

ATC Plays

Today at 6:20 PM

I’m sorry but am I missing something, dear….I placed on the first email I sent in this was  based Apollo and Daphne. Did I have some sort of stroke in bed, I know I have a low grade fever, what are you fucking talking about here, what con are you trying to pull here dear…? Jesus H Christ…!

I SPENT there days doing this through chills and a cold sweat, you know like how Barry was president, and yet Spart---Romanced through, and I don’t get this reaction, at all. Ah, but and here where Roman Tony show my worth, in a drudgeries dull dreary week, where Rodger Gödel tried to put up a Flavianna amphitheater in Brownsville, --like who needs the cowboys now, dares—there is stalk of the instigation traveling circus machine, lardy being poo pooed by democrats who think not voting for them is by definition a hate crime, showing up at this bore snooze jest awful super bowl in which they connived an other year to not have the Cowboys, to pay off a Jewish owner who brought long island charm to the nfl and incants the roman magical word of Lombardi recalled now with the name Bellecheat, to groans from everyone but the boys room at Bristol. Now, do dee cunt and dee spics show up at the flavian circus, I have used that twice, but have a low grade fever, does the Bush family crime button men reach into the renamed as roman numbered Saturnalia, oh used that and quickly saw it find its way into Maureen Dowd, but then she thinks Bill biggest crime as quoting roman stoic Marcus Aurelius to every white woman’s not laughing at the Plautus dick jokes our Coriolanus played by  Dan Rowan sprinkled on you all, and how! a joke, if they got it. So after having sued the whitest kids you know and the fat chicks at arms length to play out what the Italian genius called the ratio of power, and the placates of spite, I am armed with the betrothed as was Bill, does the white shicksas and the bread white and the Spanish conquistador heirs do they show up and ruin the last verities of the circus payee for and bought by the imperial bag man emeritus consigliore of the Bush crime family James Baker an insult not mine but of Mark Shields, showing ITALIAN AND ROMANS ARE OUR IRISH PIGS GO TO EXPLAIN OUR DECLINE AND FALL, BUT NOT LIKE ME! So as my mother said on hearing this dago hag, Madonelle, she said, go wash your cunt with vinegar, --again like Shakespeare, it makes more sense the original Italian, like Iago or Antonio or Brutus of the other stalwarts of the British theater….humnnnn…Madonna, they tell me your nothing but a dirty piece  of slimmmmmmmmmeeeee, shit negroes if she can be Michel Koalhaus I can be Rheinlander Waldo. I did see on Drudge that as I suspected, Lex Luth—sorry Hillary plots her comeback, By now less a figure in Plautus or TACITUS or Machiavelli as much as a guest star Lee Grant as killer in a Colombo rerun, from her subway platform, unlike her hubby doest have a plebe’s ear for comedy and will keep smacking into the wall until  it falls in on her, and in this is much like Satan’s existence, Roman Tony says, except with him it certainly hasn’t taken this long.

This is a play done in the style of such plays since the Romans and obviously before. The bulk of the play is made up of a pontiff dictating the histories of his heritage, as has been by some in Italy since time immemorial, i don't really know what this is about, as in your page you say the story may be used in anyway anyone likes, but then with the middlebrow bullshit is an only creed. I relooked again,as in my original email said in fact i was doing Apollo and Daphne, as thought it might be well to have done this in a style caveatting the classical demonstrations of this, and already had it written in pixes anyway, but don't know this  you seem to be on as I did the same as Ovid, and in a play on Broadway recently after 911, fittingly as the last roman city was trying to come back from a megadeath like most of Bushes, catastrophes and cataclysm is their business,  that seem forwent and forgiven by the pigs of empire, and I was called a bigot for seeing that, that grabbing of the ruins to get back to the colonial salons and equipment and sophistication of roman poet Ovid, heavens forbid, as who knew Mohammad Atta would eventually like Perpetua become something of an arsonist then made a saint. You know something i don't much care this much for a resume line, why am I bothering with this...?, but do ask your actors if like most of the senate and the Clinton family if they'd like to play at at being Romams or even Italian without a gun every once in a while,  and do as you please. 

I chickened out and didn’t send this, in whole, but forgot about any of it, as wonder woman and Mary are on, then Batman at twelve, and outside of the Cowboys, it really IS 1970 in the Tony verse after all. If someone can tell me where I made my mistake in this play feel free to answer back.

"Ancient Romance" The Book Of Tuscan Wonders

On the stage comes Pontiff of ancient Tuscany, Isia Macrobbius. A pretty Brunette in Roman dress, a vestal, Gracie sits behind the man at a table with a pen and scroll in her hands. Baed on the Tuscan books all burned away by the invading Greeks pretending they were civility and spearheading thought when italay was the first of many wild west’s to come. Scene: The old temple at the Etruscans city  of Laurentium Tuscany, about 300bc, or 1147 in the counted Tuan years of their ancient  civilization.

ANCIENT ROMANCE: The Play. 2

PONTIFF:

I, A person of ancient Tuscany, a priest of mars be. THIS AGE be during the wars with Rome, I is pegged by a zealous queen of Tuscany to go to the ends of the earth as it seems to them, to retrieve a bag of bones and a signet ring of the Etruscan great hero, the hero  Pompeus, our greatest military hero. On my  sailings towards Cathay and the warlord who has told her, dear QUEEN Caremtine, daughter of the great highland family of the princess Ligra, of his ownership of the signet ring. I ,  The priest of Mars, the pontiff actually, regales his companions with stories and tales of ancient Tuscan lore, intermingled with my love of Tuscan astrology both deisms left and deaned and adhered  to madly by the Roman serpents at the banks of the Rurtillia, and the story he lived through, the tale of Etruscan Caesar and his love for a woman, an italic princess called Ligra, the queen of the Highlands. He eventually gets the bag of bones as a relic from a Hun king, and returns to Tuscany, realizing it is all superstitious crap, Rome is designated to win, as the gods have alerted him, and he though will give the lover of Ligra, the fighter for Tuscan freedom, a proper burial at the church , or temple of mars. I wish To write something in this country about Italians and Italian history before the Romans do take it all as roman Italy as they shall hope and think they are destined to,  which is about something more than the Tyberan mafia. This is a story about the eventual destruction of the Etruscan by Roma and it allies hoping to break Tuscan power in the peninsula. Sky up straight dear, pretty girls especially vestals shouldn’t slouch…

Thus be the first page. Put a Tuscan One there dear….

ANCIENT ROMANCE: The Play. 3

The color scheme which most exemplifies my people, the Tuscan, or Rutillian, or Ravennites, is that of gold and green.

This color scheme is declarative of all of Tuscany, and is used in everything from pottery wear to decorations placed up during the cool brisk nights of winter's evening holidays and festivals. The play between yellow and green, verdant and saffron, exemplifies the imaginations of this peninsula, going back after the creation of man. It is a color teaming found everywhere, on pasta machines, bowls, shit buckets, it adorns the walls of kings and the painted corners of whorehouses. It is Tuscan as is anything, and it is a symbolic manifestation of the love of earth and coin which God , the one god, himself has placed in the inhabitants of Italy. To Rome however, the only colors flown by them, on flags of self made promotion and of self made creation, and for such robust pushiness I do admire them, is one where the color scheme is red, red as blood, and red and nothing else but red...with its perfectly opposite color perhaps of black as pitch....''...

No, my,  no,  religions of imperious, knife wielder east  for me, I am no woman. Not me, no siree...I do not pray to a Turkish god, not even to Tania, no way...I have seen enough of these Jews with knives , Arabs, to know that these Semitic gods are blond as Odin, and deaf as a doornail. Yet, Pope, I am. I still believe , like my fathers and my mothers before me In the omnipotent god , an Italian Yahweh to apace it in those terms, named Janus, the lord of high heaven who is unlike any Thor or Odin or Jupiter who has ever been crafted on any temple by those barbarian highlander pigs who seem to peachy of superiority and their followings and devotionals to a northeast star, et, find themselves always heading southern from where they egresses, always fallowing the pontifical sun. Really, though, I am a soldier, an adjacent general, a soldier lawyer, what could be worse, I wonder, and what level of hell must

ANCIENT ROMANCE: The Play. 4

await a man screeching of laws amid that most punitive of hell's sacraments, lovely war, and with KUO,  changed to Quo, so  due to Italic sensibilities to and of dearest Quota, to no avail, no less. If anything, at best I am a deist, no even, perhaps a atheist  open to a sky god, Janus,  who might, for laughs, destroy the world, or at least send the enemies of work and quiet  into that tartataus the Greeks speak of,  and of which the Jews by now, ignore.

So, I have heard my share of distaste from high and low priests, which always have been great at deceit, so much so that I doubt even Quo, always deceitfully planning Quo,  could ever have kept up with them as much as he might have needed. I bring up Janus, the once tribe's loneliest  God, for whom the monotheism of the ancient Italian was sorse of derision by the Greeks and their hated ness  of any thing but pantheons filled with racists such as they are, though I am guessing a bit too much of my Jewish friend here,  who wows as righteous though he owns the dancing  girl places which be the local  theater of Hercules, than I should. To Tuscan minds, there is only one god, as once there is two gods, there is no god at all, which he , this Jewish farce keeper, tells me is this same moral  is at play with a star in a play, that once a star has a rival or understudy do a role  better than he,or she, as we still size up actresses, here, as opposed to the hate filled ,  faggot Greeks who laughably have other men play their venial medea, so, that star is intricately lessened and thus no longer a star. It is the same with ethereal silliest invention yet, right there withe steam ovens making ships who soot darkens the once pristine  rivers of Italia, as they  move slowly down the Tyber, the dread of the truly venality of things, the gods.

I speak of Janus, the lord of the Di ingenets, which the Romans are starting to flock back to,  in droves,  finding the Greek pantheon,well, a petty a empyrean as it seems, as even Judea-isms, and Arabs religions and a cult of Isis flourish there as no where else in Italy. Funny, but the god they have erected , literally, for

ANCIENT ROMANCE: The Play. 5

themselves, Mars,  seems paltry compared to our war god Larsen, literally man bird, as Larsen means Eagle in old Italian. And they feel an censorious which even  a roman can feel when a war god is made the highest god that there is. The Greek fear  this cult of Mars, their Ares is their closest antecede, yet there is no comparison, to compare silly Greeks to stout Romans, and I am not a  fan, is like comparing junkyard dons to hieratic coyotes...one is perpetually bleating and scuffing and beating, and other silently watches it's focied on  prey though eyes which amazingly , like a scholar , or an actress,  glimmers in the cool night. So in concordance, to be witty, they have added another italic dea as the supplement to this God, being literally Concordata, meaning peace, as after a while, as the Spartans, their grandfathers of the these Romans, did starting learned, when war is everything, a certain nationalistic tenacity shows its idly face, and mostly, that men always on a war footing will just take as they liked, thus replacing earnestness  as frightened and oppressed --as in imperious--serfs, and who rally wants that...? They are building a temple in their fascistic,  to be kind way, to her, Concordia, who is always shown as if a woman of no breasts, as opposed to Tuscan goddesses, as we here in upper Tyberia, we love titties, who has increasingly longer thick birdie infested hair,  and who holds a cup  of cherry wine, thus a Asiatic symbol of peace since Trachon,... peace.....it is from this cup , this horn, from which Mars her beloved drinks. In Greece it is made that their Venus, their sex goddess, their womanish transvestite intoned by carousing faggots as a kind of queen of ejaculation as love, is the mistress of the war god Ares,as in Arian. Even the backward Romans see the inherent destitute quality in this, and have given Mars a good kind wife of peace's, as not a whore, especially not as one of those red haired whores of the Greeks is just another impetus to a god who likes the savage arts, and  who romances as a rampaging soldier more than he will ever buy from merchant ,as a good housewife in most roman houses, they say still there only a thousand families allowed on Rome, and all are interrelated, which explains much,  will be doing, having to do all

ANCIENT ROMANCE: The Play. 6

the food shopping.

GRACIE: She is pretty, black ringlet haired, with ribbons of purple ivy. In a white sheer roman dress, she seems a prettied up tomboy.  AT THE TABLE, WRITING AWAY.

Could YOU be a bit more slowwwww in your darwlin Padre Isiah… …my hand is hurtin from the ciphering…

PONTIFF:

STANDS ALONE AT A TAPESTRY.

Yes. I ,must remember I am dealing with a mere girl, Graecae, best among them, but still, I am used to Having a man person in the campaigns, an attendant Adie de camp I was used to on my many Alexandrine like war high fairways against them Romans woofers…

GRACIE:

Yesm, sur. You know the halls are filed with masculine scribblers your liege and you cold get a graduate student to wrote all thi’ n down en. I am just a hillbilly gurl, and am doing the best I can.

PONTIFF: I will remember who I am dealing with , no offense at all, just that soldiers write things down at a faster clip than you, we Etruscans make suren that our best is who we have killed off in the wars with Mother Roma….

Now, girl. You have broken my trains of thought….the trucks of my imagination have been all upturned where was I NOW…WHAT WAS I UP IN TOO, GIRLIE…?

GRACIE

LOOKS OVER HER PAPERS.

The heading says this be the book of Metaphases in the bibles and the books, pontiff and this is the story of Sun champion Aplu and Daphis, as the heading says right here….

PONTIFF:

ANCIENT ROMANCE: The Play. 7

As they took the Sabine attainted of allowing men to fight in prisons fight for  there freedom, excepting in the roman way they make sure at the end of a grudge match both men up end dead , as the Romans sure do love their ascent and their thundershowers…its  metamorphoses, dear, another word and idea that the Romans have helped themselves to. AH, yes, Aplu and Daphnis, story of doomed love… aren’t they all. dear girl…so write this down and then I will give your levely over washed hand a repose from its crinkling, but do so try to keep up as if Camille fleeing that brute Aeneas… shant you dolly girl…ah yes, Aplu and Daphinis the tragedy of doomed love as it always must be…Twas a God in the white sky, the god of the sun, the sun which the Roman senator, they chose them by how mnay severed heads that winner has cut, the hack money grubber said in his wayward silly books of a life of crime is the center of all religions and which we have lost as we become more urbanized by the second, soon enough to give our instate highway system to the Priams nephews of Rome, as ransom for our daughters. So, we come to the god of Parnassus the flattering Tuscan city in the sky, our Valhalla, our enormous heaven without being theater to the sullen tragic Soddy earth.

In this cathedral of floating spires stayed the god of the sun, Aplu as we call him, the Romans call him Apoppola, and thus name their sons and theaters after him in temple devotion. So, a loveliest child was made a girl by the devotions of fate and the chine and her name was Daphnis, and was daughter of the river God. We maven become the testators for the Roman who sued to think such Greek works effeminate and beneath then all, my dear girl…now they act as if the Greeks were somehow their invention as their love of red war takes itself the affactaion of civility as war clowns always do…

[He walks over to the windows looking out over Tuscany, his beloved country. ]

Cry Tuscany, cry for your soon too be raped and beaten and made wifely chest, cry as Sabine girls Italie becomes and marriage to the roman brutes thrust are medaled to supplicate and be demanded….do,  cry ire your girs and lovely maids  to be nupuels to those Roman barbarians and their live of over dressed gaudy war. These savages among us with now affectation of poetics…I read this work when a young saddler , in the same platoon as Erba and Vaticano the writer of drollery and simplexes and kindness and cateresses why write this onset eons ago, and now OXCAN IS A  forgotten tongue, why I press you as I do to wrote this feverish book….the Sabine atrologosts must be kept my dear girl, they must be so….

[Gracie makes a tiring gesture with her fist as if to say keep reciting, ill carry along.]

So, as it is written in Gaius and his books of from here to there, and returned, Daphnis is a nymphet as I may what said to set the scene, and she is a beauteous thing, with hair in Avidican, as onyx as a African, but not yet so tightly woolen or wove, more like thane heads of hares are seen on the suborn of black and brown curls which whip like a thousand chariots racers when a lovely girl does run across a verdant field…yes I remember it all as was writ by Avie so long ago, in that Italia still ours, still there, still unromantic, fought for and against by captains generals who make that Hannibal so freewheeling to the armors seem like a perky corporal, so  I had seen them all these African heroes of a sort that even the now famed Carthaginian did fear from Thuga, so hard and harsh their name sots in a word for such brutes, but doesn’t pay them homage enough, I say….she a like a Sicilian damsels of fairness and oracle delight, a head if a massive woolen stash of whipping curls , unseen in the dread matrons of that Greek hagiocracy that thought Italy there own.

Gracie:[Sits up. Long pause.]

Uh huh…

She bites her lip to keep up but orderly does.

ANCIENT ROMANCE: The Play. 8

PONTIFF:

So, it comes too pass that Aplu is looking askance at Turan, our Love goddess soon enough to be dismissed and recalled by the Greeks and their love of transvestites in vulgar bleared Venus, yech, and she has a old man who is her servant besotted by her as such always are, an old man in our telling named Opps,a dirty old man in swaddling clothes who ahs lost his heart to voluptuary Tuan he has, as old men and old fools may. She has made him her subagent at arts feeling badly for the spotted man who throe wit all away for her as such old idiots oft do for a well turned ankle as hers that dame and vixen smiling so readily in her red rosy gown a woman of the Neopoltain sorty. I have come to know the tramps of vanity, these exquisite teasers, and love who have sent me since a young GI in a harsh flutter, too feel lust and live and scion and sacredess of the flesh , that all together love thing that she sues as a woman as all women’s might….

GRACIE:

Yeah. Men are just stupid.

Pontiff:

Yes well, it s our last charm as marriage is after all a curse and a prison. You are well to stay a virgin forever as a vestal Grace, don’t run out on it as some have, it isn’t worth it, stay true and casted to the goddess of the moon my dear… it isn’t worth it to be a fish wife.

GRACIE;

UMMHUM.

PONTIFF:

Where was we now…? Oh dear Daphnis, chaste and celibate as woman should be east they become old crows as they are as wife’s, suspicious and deceitful and hating of things lively and alive, they mark their liquor lest it like their husbands be stolen by the maids they despises…and so now, this helper at the works of Love, of Tuan our supreme goddess woman in garments all red, he was seen by grit and masculine Apollo, he was, and the gears of the sky, the keeper of the clock of days, and wondrous ware saint did look askance at the child man baby man diaper for man there stood before the great sun dialed god. What is this foolish thing the sin god asked of the old man in dupers and wings as the helper of the goddess of Love. who is this foolish thing who arrays a cross bow as our grand teacher Canniolinius did have too replicating the slyer of Love as he did, who is this comical farce figure before me…well, unwilling to take that, as though now sbewtppstedn and aflame with love for Tuan to be her bidding maker, angrily did Opps, the roman call him Qupid, and mask him a cherubic boy showing their debates in more ways than one as all army boys is a kind of boy love barracks and all as its church and steeples. The boy man old man Opps, he did go off too Turans catcalls to her planet which we call Turania and the Romans already caller Venus misappropriating an Italian goddess of Wine, but then when one thinks of it…who could fuck a roman or be fucked by such a gargoyle without the aide of the true Eucharist of their being, the wine in which they find all truth lies after all.

Gracie: Yeah.

PONTIFF:

The nymph was beauteous and there at the weeds and the Tuscan fields in this recalling did the old man boy queen’s ring barer did see her, comely and exotic she was in half nakedness. Thinking like the big man

ANCIENT ROMANCE: The Play. 9

he wocne was in a story ill get to some day, the one time big man devised a trap as he had done when still a commissarial land swindler in central Italia all that time ago. He made two arrows. one arrow of gold dipped with calves blood, the essence of Italy at heart, the deer and the fawn that give Hesperia its cartography seen name. For her made an arrow of poisonous lead mixed with the bile of a carp, according too Aviddius, love poeter par decadence and excallecane, that soon enough will be burned away, leaving the Romans with only their retelling of things and forays tales the biggest being their law books. The bogyman made these arrows and shot one at APLU, DIRC,ET HIT! AND THE OTHER AT DAPHNIS THE QUEEN OF THE EHARTLAND, who had taken a PLEDGE as you yourself have talented and I advise you’d keep, for stately virgin hood and purity.

Well, Aplu already something of a horn dog was enflamed with passion he was, and went after the gloriously statuesque  brunette girl with wild Camilla like Amazonian  hair, a supple breast, a tall frame, that girl l that gal like Ligera who has made even misers hardest pulses  do race and fiends feel  the joys of rapturous love….He then raced after her did the sinful sun  god, as we call him, though there is some smart alack middle broadness discrepancy about such, as in  the same way that Greeks I have known have told me my own placements as pontiff a simple Italian word as are mast Latin, don’t led them do this to you, means builder of bridge’s as it is that bridge to the next word all erosions its heart is about dear gal. We cared after the girl whist shudder fearful of rape as all women too close to the waterfront become as have become since the first sailors had come to fair and lively Italian dames, as wives of apes still are afraid of the sea that bribes the barbarian horse home here. She raced aft did Daphnis, she cared away as freefall as a rabbit being hunted by dogs, raced and racing  as a fox that fears of a pack of wild canines to rip it too sheathes as fir the delight of their masters as dogs are as such adores for heavy petting…oh I do feel queasy and wish to lie down, dear Gracie, but will get these done and through and star in this Italian odyssey as I smart do as much as I do…[he is a bit swimming headed.] The son of Gods did race and take off to find this delicious creature in the weeds and the trees and the paramour that she arced into and out of, he with the aplomb and the grace and the fury of a god in steeds of white light, she was no match with girlie legs…she raced about and begged her father God of the rivers to save her from this sexual barbarian, this thug, this over sexualized thing, this needful man, take me away from this rapist queen of heaven she cried out,  begging her fathers soul to grieve her…and then a Miracle did apace in the weeds and the roots and the sand and the gravel roads. Her father  took pity on his victimized daughter he did, and being a river god abet to anaglyph all things as he could with his sludge and his soot and his river water and its grot, he made the earth come up and eventually the fast girl was taken aback, taken in by Roots and vies and she became a tree and a plant thing, and was human and beautiful no more but a mere mass of weeds as she had seemed when first seen in wayward curls by that deceitful old man now a baby arrow pusher got his matron. So She was remade and rethought and redone as a tree there quiet and still and ran no more as was now placed firmly in the metalwork of he water finding swards that goes into the soft cool ground. She was transformed into a sad obeying tree in the earth, her eyes now glazed over with wood, her limbs unfreeing in arthritic twigs, leaves coming out sweat by her as she came a wooden creation now reverse of the ancient italic fairy tale of a boy puppet comes to life, as she was made into a tree and a  mass of leaves as she had been a mass of hair and flecks of green eye  before…

GRACIE:

It figures as much…the girls are always the ones who pay in these things.

PONTIFF: Laughs.

Yes well, it is a man's world. When he saw that his ignitions had caused her to call out to be made into the weeds itself and not succumb to his chariot of love, instead of being aroused with anger and expression and viciousness like a woman or a thug might, he was made all the more sad that this had happened. He bent

ANCIENT ROMANCE: The Play. 10

down, knelt down at the tree, and tickled it with his golden hands, and bestowed upon it bows and it knits once he pined for, heehaw, he gave the tree eternal life as he was aft to do, dear girl, he made it pepepetually green,  the bay leaves, the oaken laureate even generals use, it never falls as do most others in the sad auctioned  autumnal  wind, the belief in tea laurels we have as Italians, the name of the very city we incant, so close to the Roman horse, the red menace, we sue to make food aromatic with the aromatics cum of the girl made sap, we use the fifer gear eves to make the food we eat palatable to sue, and more than that, see Roan generals’ having taloned the gold insignia from dead Etruscans as they do like Locusts and katydids, the bodies of fallen like do Arabs swine,  how use the oak cluster and the bay leave laurels as do poets and artists forever recalling the tale of the one who got away.

[He goes too a table and takes out and old military insignia.]

The order of the laurel of the praetor, dear I got this in oh, its 47 now, 1090’s  is a great young sly soldier  and read then of Daphnis and the great love that always gets away, if one is lucky, as to snare that love is a kind of rape, and then owner than that a taking of a peacock or a loveliest bird and parceling them in some suburban box, a cage, like a bird man or a old biddy making a free creature sing and bound around on a swing all day, it snit worth it. So such is the story of Alpu and Daphnis, showing a kind of love that should and must be tragedy, the goat songs sing and the rabbits play the guitarre as my mother told me when I was a boy,  rather than just mere acquiring, though I’ve done my share of that too…. Toll there are always some we shall remember and keep close as a laurel or a bay leave or a signage of our perpetual love which is better than any mere wife or husband who eventually one wishes to poison off…. Thank God ive never been there, dear child, no, not for me, the women who wanted to poison me thankfully have always been mistresses scorned, these bitches who have learned to hate me, as I have been blessed….

Gracie: [rolls her eyes.]

Uh huh, we all have been blessed, great father….