Editions MSS
Editions MSS
Sixth Divastigation Plus Six

Ganz Wahn

Antlion. From a photograph shot by Otto X. Goldbarg, c. 1924–1927, of a Mountain Fukari clay bowl (#2004.24.13595) found with Ossuary 162 in Room 21 of Swarts Ruin, Grant, Wyoming, and on display at Harvard’s Display Institution of Old Folks and Tribals in Boston, Mass.
§ 254.

Knit, ravish, and punch, you say, about that singing short cut of dawn.

Pillow down hard. — And should I knit from all that spool’s play this winding tight to cast it on? Slanting octagons of carrotty light unwind bridal lust from distaff’s want. Labial spill of skirt and thigh.
§ 255.

Oily arm skating, you say, along that howl of wrist and sky.

Many mighty stupid spirits. — And should I oil your limp shaft stiff? Against and in with it, this wry command might wail. Along my sinuous back, radiant and frail.
§ 256.

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].

What I say I saw. — And should I tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow? Grow plot’s profit from day to day. Last night’s satisfaction of first light’s thirst. And all our individual faults laugh halfway foolish, laugh handily owlish. Throats wringing tattoos from dusty drunkards. Taboos from tasty tankards. Out, out, burning confusion! Lust’s but a shadow-walking harlot strolling hand-in-hand with a poor pimp (window-shopping impostors!) who struts and flirts and straps his haggard houri’s nailhard cunt squat upon and into any paying john’s histrionic club chair, dramatic martyr’s scaffold, agonic saint’s sprawling rostrum, bad actor’s dutiful ash-pock’d blow couch, or just about any sort of pornographic platform you can think of, and voilà, snuffs it with inwit’s final spastic spill of wincing hard pillow moan. It is a truth taught by an idiot in training. Full of gurgling sounds of sucking and furry slurping. Occasional slaps, shouts. Signifying nothing shorn of trauma, habit. I was pulling my hair out.
§ 257.

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

My soul is vanity. — And should I jury faith in staid sacrality? Sham ritual rasps illusion, risks abrading a significant grid with random gambits of possibility. In a solitary room a gangly cat is dying from a plurality of suppurating worlds. On a rancorous altar a sacrificial virgin is praising divinity with rapt contusions. As I was falling dubious and rampant into injunction’s pit, I could watch my mind drooling, sobbing, railing aginst contact’s proof. Choosing again will always hurt.
§ 258.

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.

That I should do as I do. — And should I unmask this larval scam? Distant biting word scum. Skim pity from pain’s country cousin. Bound in a caul of Tixputo musk. Mouth parts, claws, nostrils, optical bulbs, horns. By taking this slowly rising animal insight through a two, four, or sixfold pitch of raunchy platforms, rancid rings, dangling chains, conical bars (both hollow and solid), crapulous whips, grappling hooks, and so on, such traditional awkward customs might fill want’s void with a tautology of, how you say, owlish bitch tricks. Try finding a woman who’s not or won’t, I say. Again that cosmic cock crows. Show you what this mind knows.
§ 259.

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.

Its waxing and waning moon. — And should I bury blossoms happily driving away? Thigh-drunk blood clouds that habit, confirms this viscous ruby ribbon of how far, how long. Through any pink gap my custom allows for. Such skirt-flung truths I could clot my limp story with by gutting both hands on a rusty nail! This is why I think that way. By timing it just right, it will burn as much as it stings.
§ 260.

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.

In contrary proportion. — And should I craft limits to spirit’s disk? Wring iconic possibility from that shadow of what I lack. Stain woman’s rhythm rich.
§ 261.

You say (again), Torturous abortion thong, prodigiously vain that shadow, smooth, thin, and gray.

Assistant satisfaction. — And should I qualify compulsion’s waning thrust? Any possibility warrants truth by association. Lock that thing’s joy straight up it. Bristling torturous and sad.
§ 262.
Towards a schizomythology of ritual (XII). An account of antlion larval silk production among Mountain Fukari of Iagip. — My abstract to this all-too-tardy follow-up to that virginal approach to “Grammaticalization of schizomythia and taboo in Mountain Fukari root class” and so on which I laid out for your scholarly scrutiny in our Institution’s Journal of Sociophysiology back in 2003 (go to § 120 for a full citation), so tantalizingly puts it most aptly: “Acculturation of Mountain Fukari (MF) girls is brought about through an acquisition of natural historical skills in combination with a schizomythology incorporating topographical ways of knowing, both cosmic and sublunary, pivoting about a sociophysiological axis in which a communal ouvroir for producing colorful initiation shawls of womaninity knit from spun strands of antlion silk is proximally, fulcrally, and distally vital. Though my focus in this warp of my work is antlion silk production and its concomitant sociophysiological and natural historical qualia involving proximal tasks such as finding, cooking, drying, and unwinding particular spiroid variants of antlion cocoon first brought to psammophilological light by Otto X. Goldbarg in Psammophilology (Iagip, Black Yurt, 1933), I also intromit a fulcral woof of MF schizomythology, cast a pirn of Iagip’s radial layout, and purl gloating against a distal clitalytical bobbin of non-MF nymphogogical praxis” (Journal of Sociophysiology 16(7), July 2009).
§ 263.

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.

Fiction as social pathology. — And should I intuit avidity’s risk? Form outspills function with a frivolous construct’s lack. Turgid bracts, unspun arils, acrid sap. Grown-up satisfaction of pissing out words to chart limits to what I lost. Sold at half a whipcrack to any who’d want most to rub an oily frisson of charcoal or chalk into so many tincan cuts. Nothing will do as good or bad as vomiting, actually. Low humming liquid throb of a sham world’s void. Tuning it up or down half a notch just might patch that ostinato’s trailing shadow. Or pull it out by its torn roots. So many thorns for such tiny fruit.
§ 264.

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.

A compulsory philosophy’s most joint-dimpling thrust. — And should I fulfill constraint’s fantasy with joyous tufts of fist-wrung hair? On all fours pawing and scratching and snorting to spill my plump oily dugs across his lavish back. Goad his fat flanks with a talonspur squat. Assuming I lurch forward in a calfskin clutch of stirrup and shaft. Void’s crotch mounts any mad hilt of chin or tail. Gallops a splayroot trail of ovarial blood. Just boning up on Kant, sir.
§ 265.

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.

Unchanging pulp of inconstant things. — And should I punch form’s mirror? Drafting down through suspicious drifts of larch and fir, a gangly brown stork thumbs a raw nail’s dirk stiffly in. Pull back a bloody fist.
§ 266.

Imaginary orality, you say. A hybrid bitch wallowing in rabbit scat.

Scorn touch. — And should I shrug? Imagination disappoints a past want’s wish. I shrug.
§ 267.
Against blows, but not against pinpricks. — And should I lard my ludict with citations from Rumi? I’ll splay for your clitalytical scrutiny a fourfold hub of Patrolius’s Ionis Astra; cantos 5 and 2 in front, 7 and 10 in back. Now, this “pair of lyric gimmals” (as Dado Udidi calls our hub our nub our chub our club of inquiry), is not as old as our fulcral triad of cantos 1, 6, and 11 (which I dug into in my 251st ludict), nor as young as what subsists in cantos 3, 4, 8, and 9, but what I think you’ll find most intriguing about this “twain of copular song” (as Sagarch Flawndol calls our four-ply play of indagation) is not its lyrical quality, but its historical worth, for its original composition is glottochronologically synchronous with Sogdianian incursions into Hamiltonia. How do I know? By Rumi (1207—1273), you smirk you shrug you curl your inquisitorial lip. Watch. Upon catching rumor that this unfamiliar Bactrian spiritist from Balkh was lurking in his only houri’s oracular sutras, our author, too, wrung or hung or dug his nails into his dubious brow. “Why,” that Poldavian ambassador to Babur (1483–1530) asks in his Afghan journal (partially burnt, alas, in a conflagration that wrought havoc on On’s National Library), “why would Nirusa’s fifth canto in particular flaunt an off-color allusion to a morcid pium-stung paragandist with nothing to gild his lyrical wings with but an all too orthodox grabbag containing six thousand or so humdrum transpositions into idiomatic Chorasmian of quaint Babylonian saws? I don’t know (non so), but I will find out (ma scoprirò).” In full, Patrolius’s locus of inquiry runs as follows (my translation):
Lust without bounds draws Io’s sons to mouthlush thrall: — craft-avid
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 [1]!
In 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):
And Atta’s gift, too, this hollow ktar-cup of basswood cut, rim
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 [2].
It 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:
From this vulvular cup, drink! as you’d from virginal Ishtar’s
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 [3]!
I 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:
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 [4].
  1. Patrolius, c. 1517, Ionis Astra, fifth canto, O. W. Johnson trans.
  2. Ibid., canto two.
  3. Ibid., canto VII.
  4. Ibid., canto X.
§ 268.

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.

So as to grow good again. — And should I narrow vision’s rhythm down to a stochastic running in and out of surf? Bind with strips of birch bark wrist and skull again to what I forgot. Vulvar spirit, clitoral soul, hollow trunk of mountain ash. I was trying to unstitch narration’s running knot. Circumstantial custom by which to banish any sacrificial girlchild to an obligatory dichotomy of form and function. Thus you’d know that such a stock supplicant’s drama might focus a moral part. Nystagmic burst, a spinal bowing back of buttock and thigh. Abrasions, burns, contusions. A mumbling handout, a truism. A moss-gobbling clutch of pintail mallards lurch against, on top, that tidal suck and drag. So tradition wants it.
§ 269.

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.

Through a crack of autumn falsity. — And should I withstand this annual crashing down of crimson and gold? Trim battalions march past, saluting fist and sword. Sumac, hawthorn, willow, dogwood, sitka mountain ash. Ironclad ranks of a born-again dictator’s suburban fantasy. Lanky crows play tag in a lapis flood of rising wind. Hold still for a focal instant of corvid bliss. Spill off into tumbling shock of whirlpool. Why won’t you admit that I was right? So many awkward masks it took to catch that orchard-bound bus, folding and flapping and sobbing in solitary lock-up. At this point I would work into position our titular crack of autumn falsity. Look through it with a pair of blank antipathy. Lift again this fitful noria of black wings in orbit around a tall cottonwood’s flaming gimmal of crown. Pimply caps, gloomy gills, tumid stalks. Against a sunshot prisonwall of mansions and lawns, a city awaits its hour of martyrdom. A patchwork dusting of fly agaric, a splash of blood.
§ 270.

You said that I was grudging for it among all that slut-chin mountain-slur and twist conclusion.

Grinning proof. — And should I hang this apiform sprawl of grainy light? Flick its grim cap off with a rasping lingual dart. Insidious animal pain for which any trim soul would gnaw away at its own putrid skin. Thrashing blossom of claw and fur and fangs falling out. What gravity’s pompous thrall graciously disavows to finish, I pull tight with a cutting twist of cord. Only a grip so guilty could transform this gaping hollow grimacing wound of shit and pus into a vulgar pair of pavonian quail warbling into flight through hawthorn shadow.
§ 271.

As your scholium points out, “A critically natural structural comparison would find lurid, though intact, this joy-rung womb howling through its conclusions’ lips.”

“Status: Still Living.” — “And should I void this laminar slab of blood pulsing out? May no sad insight mar your mock pity, your sham compassion, author. This is a viscous translation. You look anyway.” It’s at this point that I’d plot, if I could, a cunty finish to this poisonous scrawl. I’d marry it to a paragraph’s widow, killing both. But I’m anticipating. Bought form, as you know, commands a minimal stab at story, or story’s simulacrum slashing lurid paint and raw canvas both. And so I go on, thus: “In Maryam’s orgasmic abstraction (you will find it hanging in our Ludorium of Arts and Idols, South Hall), muscular impasto masks a tyrannical swirl of drips and drops and dribs and drabs of actual cloth (silk, cotton, wool). Our artist calls this portrait of our upskirt occupation, ‘Status: Still Living,’ and mark, critic, how its cryptic scumbling of gaping stomata, its painful combinatorics of suctorial possibility, all flow and glow, imparting vital gloss to hub and nub and ray — all signs, you say, of a particularly sapphic nobility.” Cut. In glamourous Glamporium a glorious animal squats to void its matinal bolus. Cunning linguists think that what Fukari know as smaragdina, and Wallapai as smaragató, botanists call Datura stramonium. A glaring rift yawns in fistula’s fabric, parts of it still clinging to my — you can’t avoid it — fist. This is a fluid translation, author. You look away.
§ 272.

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.

Groping for oblivion. — And should I accomplish plural acts of complicity? Happily contagious, common hypocrisy’s musk masks my cowl of plump womaninity. My sacrificial gambit. My buckthorn scowl. I could start by baring cunt’s wings in bloody sawdust. That story, this city, slant consolation. Polish off that barroom clinch atop rough wood slats. Any obliging skirt’s margin of collusion. Tympanic oars sink into it. Writhing thighs and dorsal scars. Grinning invalids pluck scabs from history’s fistula. Trim collision’s marga with mighty aristocratic frost. Apply cold lips to its conclusions, lick its contusions. Virtuous burst of abstract pus. Thoughtful young foam flaking off.
§ 273.
Convictions of all kinds. — And should I magnify an insubstantial flourish hiding in a craggy nook of scansion’s abyss? If you’ll cast your mind back to Patrolius’s fourth cobla — that flaming ruby among tawny topaz, that glabrous opal among scabrous onyx (Nilo fluvio, in cujus litoribus gignitur) — you’ll find out just how much that author of tautly ravishing stanzas was willing to risk so as to broach Norlia’s most hazardous approach. For it was not just that luck, having bound its ambassador to an origin in a mountainous land historically spanning from Pontic coast to Caspian, had thrust into his hand, thus, what was not your typical dragoman’s toolkit, consisting as it did of idiomatic Poldavian’s notoriously difficult grammar — crampons wrought from its 53 consonants; pitons cast from its 11 syllabic fulcra (what Poldavian grammarians call vocalic marrow); slings and cords wrung and spun from its 6 pitch tonics; grappling hooks built from its 14 modal moods marking (typically with an affix or two) distinct grammatical functions involving location, ablation (brought about by ablaut), allation, illation (thrust into a word’s groin with an infixival sting), sublation (spat out by syllabic duplication in association with a glottalic consonant or adjunction of vocal fry), prolation, comitation or association, privation (notions hinging upon loss or lack or having to go without), translation (a carrying across), partition of a part or quantity out of a group or amount, distribution (spilt across a discontiguous chain of anaphoric clitics), comparison, vialis, and nominal (a grammatical function common to many idioms that marks nouns and pronouns as logical actors in phrasal units) — but also that gallant Babur had graciously shown him half a quintal of loquacious ruth by putting his way, by shutting in his room, a stunning houri, Nirusa:
Cunning as poaching fox is that girl who drinks down straight ktar
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 [1]!
Notwithstanding 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:
From modal point you first ran forth, syrinx-clutching holy bard,
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 [2].
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

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.

contrast pourtant to anything so distinctly antinomian to it in form as all of Patrolius’s thousands of known distichs in Poldavian and stanzas in Ityalian — but not, I must insist, to how his own annotations and allusions in his partially burnt Afghan journals function and confirm — notwithstanding, in short, this triarchically functioning strata of dissimilarity affirming a substratum of similarity (Tria juncta in uno), a grim handful of dim nihilists still indignantly maintains that Ionis Astra is a fraud, a fantasy, a fabrication as fictional as your aristocratic Poldavian lady’s habit of giving birth in a mountain-top calidarium with only a bar of hyssop and almond oil soap, a faithful dragon, and a dutiful husband for company, cathartic, and combustion, and, as a corollary, that i) no scholar calmly consulting this foxy folio and scanning its cryptic scribblings on a dull autumn morning in that august National Library on Calmbrood Road, Paris, should put nary a guṇa nor sūcī of faith in its dusty words. From this infamous furrow of disappointing illogic it follows, thus, that ii) my Appalachian translation of Patrolius’s Ityalian lyricization of his multilingual transcriptions of Nirusa’s Norlian narration is no proof a) of Norlia’s mythic truth nor b) of Nirusa’s hypaxial past for which many a child of Ishtar is always mourning. Absurd! Against that pack of wrathful anarchists I hold that faith’s possibility is as form-fitting and patulous as my conviction’s position, and that simply by falling back on it with a pouting purring moaning sigh, I’ll display practically all you’ll want to know it by:
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 [3].

  1. Patrolius, Ionis Astra, fourth cobla or canto or quatrain or stanza; my trans.
  2. Patrolius, Ionis Astra, third canto or cobla or stanza or quatrain; my trans.
  3. Patrolius, Ionis Astra, stanzas 8 and 9; my trans.
§ 274.

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.

Sway amphibian hipspiral. — And should I ransom this public soul’s most fatuous moan for a summary account of what a hollow young worm’s dying has taught us? Classical position of compulsory wrist ring and axillary blank is what it’ll cost you to drown in that part. Diving dangling all rosy and tight you might buy it. Unhook its claws for a show of ambiguous passion. Man brooks woman just as far as philosophy fails or sticks. Antiquity’s gift still grows in that crucifictional cavity. Blind sinus of luminous moss and glossy black ivy. With room to annoint a high coil of suppositious rhythm. Insightful braids claim that limit at dawn’s solitary sin. Unzip horizon’s lip with adoration’s moist ambitious fist. For turning I’d grown too natural to risk looking away toward or clinging. Swallow again chromatic toad and grin a lizard in fact.
§ 275.

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.

Still so young. — And should I dismiss a trim third of frail passion? Slim hips vamp a joyous portal of impish dimpling. My small of back, my blushing tuft. Angry child thighs assail limp looks. But that only accounts for about half of it. Proof that pain trusts a tawny crimson world.
§ 276.

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?

Sacrificial imprint of hands. — And should I glom a playful plagiary’s moldy gloss? I thought my back was participating. Gut its chub to suck that goatish marrow out. No mistaking this conid attack through any fault of its own activity. Sorry, worry, I was tumbling from rooftop slurry. Go off to a party or having its law strung up for good. That child I was plunging toward courtyard flint. Turn it in for a woman’s husk. Brows, habits, oppositions, insanity. By inclination only. From window quartz I launch it. By inclination only my virginity was far from lost. Buoyant and flailing, gawky spiral globs of gouty blood unpack your pliant plaint. Glib shadow. Scornful gnomon. Pair by pair of forlorn fists rub my unshorn pity raw as quaking pilgrims’ hands pull down your pants, lift my skirt up to my chin. Calling mommy, mommy, mommy, in a giddy burst of crows.
Antlion. From a photograph shot by Otto X. Goldbarg, c. 1924–1927, of a Mountain Fukari clay bowl (#2004.24.13595) found with Ossuary 162 in Room 21 of Swarts Ruin, Grant, Wyoming, and on display at Harvard’s Display Institution of Old Folks and Tribals in Boston, Mass.
[ A not-for-profit instantiation of human imagination and human labor ]
Copyright © 2010 Michael Sean Strickland