Knit, ravish, and punch, you say, about that singing short cut of dawn.
Oily arm skating, you say, along that howl of wrist and sky.
In a word, you say, what you truly want to say, is ‘toboggan’ — don’t you think?
You (chain-smoking): Catch it I did, that scratchy lust for clit-lick couch stunts.
You (dirty, drooling): Day walks on dolphin thighs, day thinks (or thanks), “Cry daily shy task to itch that aliquot’s dry kiss.”
I saw, you say, pupil’s blood satisfaction dissatisfaction from living in that position.
Without obscuring that blind, sulfuric thirst, I was striving, you said, unwillingly.
You (foolish and full, chin dripping sticky groin-fruit sap): That fool’s joyous vacillation.
A dust of backward, you say, gold from which spring slips burdock.
You (simulating writing’s act): Word it, “Charity frilly orthotics tank titration.”
You (bright pink with confusion): It looks, it accosts, it knows orgiastic growl.
You (laboriously, though softly, moaning, with a rasping hum at throat’s back, and dull grinding of molars): Aarraakhrrgh!
It is a titfuck, I told you, you say, talk talk talk.
You (strapping pants, buttoning plaid shirt): With sunlight all that conflict at last, you boggling idiot, your sapphic paw’s corruption compulsion, your gluttonous snow-burst skull — shut up!
You (aloof in a midnight bar): In that black yurt’s gloom you did suck my thick fright out, O vascular slouch of harlotry, and transform it, thus, into fistulous darts of globular light, O vaporous huff of nothing, and still I am pining, pining always for this furious instant of waking into your labyrinth’s dark [lacuna].
Acquit that sham biscuit, you say. Drink it down.
Dying arms without, you said, obscuring almost lost now.
A cock, you say, cascading down ash falling into darkling don’t know.
Could hurt sanity thanks walk march crawl, you say, run
Walk, you say, clinch word.
Abortion thong, you say. Prodigiously vain.
For all that hay for most of a visit, did you say or didn’t you, what I’m doing? Magic.
You said on that bank hyacinth blossoms dying gods with waxy without things.
Drunk with lips or dull with throat’s blood, you ask, did I kiss you, or didn’t I?
You said I don’t wash to bow, tap it old, limply, drowsy compass.
Today you said I stood staring at it upright running standing rhythmic swaying back and forth and turning and pivoting among splotchy shadows of that sky’s almost crimson vault and with my arms I cast a dragon pining.
You say (again), Torturous abortion thong, prodigiously vain that shadow, smooth, thin, and gray.
Moist dirt in a vital spot out of this black soul pluck a dirk as I say it laughing, you say. Solo it can’t carry on for long. A monthly social. I was coming into such sharp suspicions, a dark storm cloud of conflict. And a man or woman or whatnot in my condition, too.
I fist I first, you say, glabrous and gray, mais pas trop tôt, with small without not dying, putain! Coming munching on it walking clad and shod most mordantly.
Walk, you mopsy waif, nimbly, as you said, my wistful palsy skips a throb as I was birthing you sans sang.
It shows up, you say, in all things mingling rough tonics hazardously could I catch it. It howls from grin to grin that obligatory cornstalk of what I forgot. Pining for what I said or didn’t say, I say. To start off: my adoring public’s lust for it. I told you all about it, I must admit. Supplicating for that soft hollow rind of rotting skull suspicious. In this way could morality patch originality’s dark air.
Imaginary orality, you say. A hybrid bitch wallowing in rabbit scat.
Lust without bounds draws Io’s sons to mouthlush thrall: — craft-avidIn addition, Patrolius (1464–1559) jots down for cobla (or canto) two what I cast as “Atta’s gift, too, this hollow ktar-cup of basswood cut, rim pot stop word of which Rumi’s lyric plays dull mirror,” translating Nirusa’s high Hamiltonian glyphs into compact Pahlavi, jāmi pur az mai vāt (my rim pot stop word), waxing it with a singularly lucid Ityalian scholium, sarprostium, and salivating copiously on its (and Nirusa’s) fair parts as follows (my translation again, natch):
Girls born at altar’s pivot and push to birth in turn bards fit for bright
Moon promiscuity of spiral dancing and ktar-drinking:
Your Rumi mirrors but dully Atta’s moonmad ritual !
And Atta’s gift, too, this hollow ktar-cup of basswood cut, rimIt is fair to say that crucial to Patrolius’s insight into, and, thus, scrupulous translation of, Nirusa’s acroamatical rutsong (rūdi sarwād), was a singular situation au boudoir broadcast to us in a mystical patchwork of high Ityalian and low Pahlavi, amatory musings taking form in his Afghan journal as a logogriphic amalgamation approaching in moralistic jocosity Ariosto sotto Rumi (for lack of as apt an authorial comparison as is usually my wont): “moonbright glint (scintillio lunalucido) of that ktar-cup’s brim (jāmi hilālī) my houri brings as faint down on haunch and thigh (coscia) softly mirrors my oral and gonadal flux of anticipation [lacuna] kiss (šaftālūd) I turn around (mi volto) and, assuming vis à vis my acrobatic nautch girl’s rostrocaudal axis a curious flank-by-jowl or tail-to-mouth (flanco a guancia o coda a bocca) position mirroring that astrological sign (lingam) for a zodiacal rāshi known as Karka (Crab), I pivot (giro), as I said, and suck (succhio) on that curiously plump pulp of my aromatic nautch girl’s loinfruit lips (jāmi gauharī) fragrant soma thick and luscious dripping from my own chin and Nirusa’s too (jāmi sīm) our mouths fight for it a pair of lions or scorpions (šīram žiyān) in amorous clutch (munta’iz) licking laving loving I swallow light Nirusa swallows night in this fabulous ambrosial wild plumjamgirl (mīnān-nīšū) constructing from what among all our dim moist and most lurid parts might lack for in this lucid ductility of glyph and word anointing (consacrando) both of us with a satisfaction on par with no far surpassing any total manna skyworld (jāmi jam) of diamond, gold, lapis, onyx, ivory, ruby, and whatnot.” In short, Patrolius was imbibing an intoxicating oronasocrural liquor-and-jug combination that stunning nymphs and uncoy corybants had so obligingly, according to Nirusa, spilt, drunk down, put out for, clung to, bought off with, and strung out on panpiping bards and ktar-strumming shamans and ktar-swilling warriors who had so lustily sung of such invigorating sap-and-tankard, quim-and-gizzard, youth-and-dotard conjunctions in Norlia of old:
Pot stop word of which Rumi’s lyric plays dull mirror, lacking,
In that dusky land, lupanar joys and six strong strumming bards
Transfusing luscious round fruit to liquid music of wild pitch .
From this vulvular cup, drink! as you’d from virginal Ishtar’sI should add that what for Patrolius was a mystical “mirror of Solomon” (jāmi jahānnumā) is for us simply a star chart (both astronomical and astrological) and that Patrolius, languishing in his soul’s infatuation, lards—as I could but won’t or might but wouldn’t — his fanciful analysis with puns on Nirusa, such as nīrū naurī nisā’ — “burning blossoms of woman(inity).” I should also add that nūrī ilāhī—“divinity’s light”—and in particular its Malaysian corruption, Norlia — has nothing to do with our Norlia (though it is probably not for lack of trying that nūrā hints at both stuff for uprooting a coy crinoidal patch and also what flows or follows from that patch’s blushing lack of floss). Am I putting it too plainly if I say it again? Atta, as you know, is Ishtar’s pluricopular avatar, and ktar-cup stands for vulva. Why do I find writing this ludict so difficult? This is my blood. According to Nirusa, ktar-drunk Dudu in canto two sings of sacral group carnality such as Atta goads us lupan-bound Norlian girls born at altar’s pivot and push into transacting with six strong strumming Norlian bards concomitantly on particularly auspicious conjunctions of moon and sun. In Rumi’s dusky lowland of Babylonia, though, such plural joys simply cannot occur, for Rumi’s god is singular, strict, and taciturn, not manifold, mild, and tacit as is ours. Any Norlian man, in addition, is always a warrior, always a bard and shaman (sāman), and always, thus, has warrant to gratify his lust with any Norlian woman who wants to satisfy it. Similarly, any Norlian woman, who is always a sibyl, also knows how to hunt and fight, and so on, and what many a Norlian woman was hungry for during this particular lustration was a Sogdianian warrior, if you catch my drift. This is all far from shocking. What is shocking — that is, was shocking to Patrolius — is this: Among Sogdianian survivors of Norlian ambush and lust, a rumor was rampant that your Chorasmian bāsīra of spiritualistic basura was in fact born in high Hamiltonia’s most schizomythic city, Norlia, and that his cult of mystical twirling and gnostic bibulosity was a variant of our all too sociophysiologically spiral dancing and agonistic ktar-drinking! Now, Norlia is no island, and no Norlian is an insular idiot — commutatory traffic, scholarly inquiry, and sundry quid pro quo had long ago brought word to Norlia of this ludicrous linguist whirling and barking about unity, law, supplication, and whatnot, and your normal Norlian had to laugh a lilac spray of ktar foam upon catching wind of this gossip. No, Rumi was not born in Norlia, as cantos 2 and 5 affirm. But moralistic authors of aphorisms such as your Chorasmian bāsīra (vid. supra) and various Babylonians and sundry Sogdianians (but not you, Sagarch, not you!) found it most difficult to scoff with impunity at a Norlian woman’s manifold charms; that is, without flailing about wildly in a cloud of guilt-inducing gnats, batting away at inwit’s itch. Now, what did Patrolius find out about that allusion to Rumi? Vulgar spirits posit that “Atta’s moonmad ritual” is simply a position known as “69,” and that Rumi and Co. mirror that ritual by whirling. That that is so, I will admit, but that is not all that is so. Why dismiss Patrolius’s own rapturous fathoming of Nirusa’s dark hints? Paint our solution thus. Far from his lowland hutch in Nishapur or Tus, a staunch Sogdianian warrior slinks up winding mountain trails. By turns Norlian warriors harrass him with arrows and swords, and Norlian sibyls taunt him with glabrous prows and soft words of loving sham. His armor may ward off blows, but not notorious pinpricks such as catching sight of an alluring Norlian lass’s promising nudity will inflict on his humor. But, alas! throbbing compassion, along with a cunning simulacrum of oblation, mark his doom. In a swoon of transcoital abandon, an arrogant cull falls victim to our fatal lust which is as old as your most punctilious world or world’s panjandrum. Stick a dirk into it. That lowland lout’s carotid yawn. Drink that blood. Multiply until divastigation looms. Jocular Norlian warriors victorious, and rowdy Norlian trollops ruddy with a mirthful mood of agonistic transport, go off to frolic by duos and trios and small groups groping clutching writhing moaning laughing and cavorting in circular avocation of mutual satisfaction of which Rumi’s mystical whirligig ritual and chant is but a hollow symbol (I grant you that) void of any manicarnic foundation of sanguinary truth. This is my blood that was his. Grin and swallow. An avuncular bard, a filial troubadour, our own schizomythic Dudu or Dado, looks on with a wink and a not too adroitly wrought (vid. supra, my words about lyrical quality vs. historical worth) song:
Holy ravishing in our lupanar among panpiping
Rim pot stop words and black mirrors of obsidian magic:
Drink, Dudu, our fruits’ luscious syrup, portal scorpion–stung !
To that man’s hut — to drink ktar again — to sip virgin Ishtar’s
Luscious round fruit, portal scorpion–stung — to strum that ktar’s six
Strings — to play that syrinx — to outchant Ur: Norlia’s wood-strong
Rainbow snail’s virgin’s sons, as am I, Dudu, who sings this song .
Staring at it upright running standing rhythmic swaying back and forth, you say. Turn and pivot.
Fucking fool I am, arrogant, you say. I sat in a room I forgot I was tiny.
Globular light submit fight, you say. I saw that tumbling vulva standing bound. Admonish it.
I try it on, you say, to confront this act of cosmic fright function.
Vascular slouch of harlotry, you say or said, what was I doing to suck. I was afraid.
I must admit, you said, that I did look at that ravishing’s duplication, laud it, and walk on digging in hard with drops of rain floating upward and down to horizon’s nadir.
You said that I was grudging for it among all that slut-chin mountain-slur and twist conclusion.
As your scholium points out, “A critically natural structural comparison would find lurid, though intact, this joy-rung womb howling through its conclusions’ lips.”
Clinch word could catch pining, you say, boil on won’t clinch a slip of bark — conclusion’s phallus in soul’s prick of clinch. Rot fright could walk clinch word to nadir.
Cunning as poaching fox is that girl who drinks down straight ktarNotwithstanding my knack for nagging my author’s background with bourbon-bought claws, for harassing his royal bastions (Patrolius was a not so distant cousin of Poldavia’s King Kurmansgoï) with a sort of hypnotic coming and going of my rum-rung randy rowdy rooks (vid. in particular supra, § 189, § 251, and § 267), Nirusa’s singular contribution to Patrolius’s fluid transmutation of a knotty narration of Norlian customs into limpid Ityalian quatrains by way of provisional transcriptions in a tachygraphic patois of Pahlavi, Poldavian, Sanskrit, Chagatai, Lydian, and Latin (a small instar of which might run as follows: what I put out as ‘poaching fox’ shows up in P’s jotting as pabsl toyvf, that is, pabulans torvinus vulpus, or ‘grimly foraging fox;’ similarly, his sgoi cri in our third cobla, infra, is not only a pun on his royal kinship, but also an infusion of scio crinitus criticum, or ‘knowing from crown to crotch,’ which bard Dudu and his musical chums aim to accomplish from point to fruit with, soit a plurality of chanting corybants, soit a singularly moaning virgin) found in a calf-bound in-folio manuscript containing Gallo-Frankish variants dating from 1809 and 1813 of parts (long thought lost) of Potocki’s Manuscript found at Saragossa should not, cannot, must not boil down to simply acting as a carnal foil or horizontal support of “inspiration” for a plagiary through and with which any romantically vigorous troubadour could draw from a body as compact and luscious and intriguingly flush with story as Nirusa’s. No. That alluring buxom unstintingly obliging woman’s contribution was, as scurrilous citations in H. van Wacht’s-Dock’s Natural and moral history of Poldavia (1596, Gand: C. Plantin) and Subborainizy’s Book of Distaff Cuttings (Ktar og-Firrsan, c. 1600) avouch and affirm, both dominant and pivotal to this work of collaboration shot through with womaninity known as Ionis Astra:
And, citing Rumi, can chant a loping, swinging translation
Outdoing (with no pausing, no panting) six pan-piping bards
In this lupanar, oh holy star Io, virgin Ishtar !
From modal point you first ran forth, syrinx-clutching holy bard,Mais nonobstant how culturally contrary Ionis Astra is or was to Poldavian traditions, how stylistically at odds this work is to Poldavia’s conformist canons of dithyrambic composition, to its quaint schools of didactic prosody and its positivistic forms of dramatic dicta dictating how Poldavian skalds must string in dot-to-dot fashion distich to stanza, stanza to canto, canto to chorus, and chorus to play’s act — notwithstanding this conspicuous
Strong sculptor of liquid music born of Ishtar’s singular
Ravishing, to transform plural violation of body’s
Taboo, dawn’s luscious hollow fruit, into triply spiral ktar .
Burnt Afghan journals. — An offprint of a livraison à part of On’s Royal Association of Poldavian Scholars’ Philosophical Transactions bruits abroad for public appraisal a photographic simulacrum of P’s surviving gribouillis d’ithos à l’athos along with au courant marginal and facing transcriptions into standard idioms and scripts. Alas, this too is now just an aura of dubious ash caught in a column of lamplight, a tick’s crumb of latitant carbon adrift in a lucific throb of a luna moth’s wings. Burn sparks, you say, stand in that larval pull of throat and maw, that radiant ovum unwilting my ram I stick into it.
Mourning. — Similar to how this four-ply husk of youthful strata consisting of stanzas 3, 4, 8, and 9 simply bursts on occasion into an inconsolably sobbing nostalgia for a long lost Norlia of old. I’m old, I’m not old, that harsh autumn sky, you say, sticks in my throat.
Flap again your slow bright wings, holy star Io, plump moanzy
Dancing drunk and languorous across Atta’s ravishing sky —
Thick with rainbow snail blood, six rising suns strum through young Ishtar’s
Downy floss: raw pulp of that lupanar fruit sticks in my fangs.
Dart back now into your hut — that human-munching bird swoops down,
Drawn by Io’s holy star — dart back out now; with your arrow’s
Liquid music, and your taboo-obscuring chant, hunt that bird
That slows not, nor shows gravid Ishtar’s front, nor birth’s acrid wood .
You said drag half-blind it now fair pass allow only hands not blank joy you said. Stupidly smug blank hot backward fall striving you said. Blank pour out that boast without obscuring what I was afraid of you said. Hands blank lips magic.
This is what you said: Things how many. How focus moral into trying so many. How crucially that’s it. Acquit for that biscuit to drink it down. Cows and goats cosmic mud kin to thighs and mouth. This vapor such hard pain saffron. Dancing I drift nothing from room to room. I’d fight snow for it.
You said a cow was kin to cosmic mud, and goats to thighs, and that my mouth vapors such hard pain saffron nothing drift room.
Turn and pivot, you say. Sky vault could kiss could catch sporty gout it now. My ass spot’s tight rain flowing outward that of talking or dragging to mark that gouty bliss window galactic trunks I didn’t follow. Fall striving up a gouty witch. What could I know about that?