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Patrolius — Ionis Astra — Sixth Canto plus Four
Ionis Astra
by Patrolius Sixth Canto plus FourPo ktar po manna dosperu vineslimosa no nines Oriadepreccata po sisti girtablullu minus Dudu in ammine subios Ur Zersionylladaru isnoiuste testa unict nimloidu as est idea ad kore adlares ipsi ludict
To that man’s hut — to drink ktar again — to swill virgin Ishtar’s
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.
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 son: such am I, Dudu, who sings this song.
Patrolius — Ionis Astra — Final Canto
Final CantoŒnyutuyliium subios ad Io sisti aster este lacunaassotolosteæ diem lupanares ubriacar mes ulna in Nirusa od Yerisoa nimloidu et sgoi cri inframoimo ipsi Oria sisti bantu ad Zersionylladaru minus exodus ipsi Norlia
Catoptric birthsong pivots profoundly Io’s vulvular
Spiral margin to any dolorous art that spills, though not vainly. Rooks, crows, daws, jays, and a solitary hawk mob, trill, squawk, sob. Thorns and horns and short sharp hairs of fistular light sting my spunky thighsplit thrill of it. Dull wings’ torn air caught in my throat. In a shagbark hut worthy of Ishtar’s most ravishing gasps of “No, no, no,” no woodstrong city will I birth. Crimson in a cold brook. Put it in a black plastic trash bag. I’m told that a noxious distillation of avocado nut and cassava oil will rosify my womb most handily. Still must I crucify my labia proud, work down gradually atop this altar, holy basalt worn smooth by our long tradition’s cultivation of any and all sorts of lusty pursuits. Long past nightfall, to Glamporium, limbs quaking, I limp alluringly back along that gawking road, singing.
Altar’s languid hollow ktar cup — bibulous young lupanar Girls born of Ishtar’s singular ravishing await that snail’s Rainbow-strung string-pairs, wood-strong, to birth our city, Norlia. |