Feb 282013
 

“Come here, let me share a bit of wisdom with you.
Have you given much thought to our mortal condition?
Probably not. Why would you? Well, listen.
All mortals owe a debt to death.
There’s no one alive
who can say if he will be tomorrow.
Our fate moves invisibly! A mystery.
No one can teach it, no one can grasp it.
Accept this! Cheer up! Have a drink!
But don’t forget Aphrodite–that’s one sweet goddess.
You can let the rest go. Am I making sense?
I think so. How about a drink.
Put on a garland. I’m sure
the happy splash of wine will cure your mood.
We’re all mortal you know. Think mortal.
Because my theory is, there’s no such thing as life,
it’s just catastrophe.

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Feb 132013
 

Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place
I rejoice that things are as they are and
I renounce the blessed face
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice

from Ash Wednesday

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Feb 052013
 

O foot, O leg, O (I’m done for) those thighs, O buttocks, O bush, O flanks,

O shoulders, O breasts, O delicate neck, O hands, O (madness!)those eyes,

O wickedly skillful walk, O fabulous kisses, O (slay me!) her speech.

-From The epigrams of Philodemos, translation and and commentary by David Sider.

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Jan 252013
 

Come here, nasty words, so many I can hardly
tell where you all came from.
That ugly slut thinks I’m a joke
and refuses to give us back
the poems, can you believe this shit?
Lets hunt her down , and demand them back!
Who is she, you ask? That one, who you see
strutting around, with ugly clown lips,
laughing like a pesky French poodle.
Surround her, ask for them again!
“Rotten slut, give my poems back!
Give ’em back, rotten slut, the poems!”
Doesn’t give a shit? Oh, crap. Whorehouse.
or if anything’s worse, you’re it.
But I’ve not had enough thinking about this.
If nothing else, lets make that
pinched bitch turn red-faced.
All together shout, once more, louder:
“Rotten slut, give my poems back!
Give ’em back, rotten slut, the poems!”
But nothing helps, nothing moves her.
A change in your methods is cool,
if you can get anything more done.
“Sweet thing, give my poems back!”

Translation by Richard Bullington

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