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The History of Poetry: 2 April 14, 2015

Posted by The Typist in Poetry, The Odd, The Typist, Toulouse Street.

And I only am escaped alone to tell thee.

A year of Circe and then


The Phaeacians dance under the island sun.

Odysseus broods in the shade over his untouched sunburger and Elpenor. The Last-To-Go-ians snatch it out of his hands and conga line out the door singing “Someone’s in the Kitchen with Dinah.”

Roll another lotus, won’t you?

Fucking Cyclops, (fuck you Poseidon), voracious hole Charybdis and that man-eating bitch Scylla. Sometimes a guy can’t catch a break. But, wow, those Sirens.

Ever try. Ever sail. Sail again. Sail better.

Blood, blood is the answer, the universal language of men. (He dug the ell-square pitkin, dug the slashing of the animals, dug the flowing of their blood.)

Not now, mother, I’m talking to Tiresias.




Son gone off adventuring after his father. A woman patient to a fault, the faithful guardian of the patrimony, weaving and unweaving lies. Of course. It’s expected (c.f. Eden). In the end the ever seen, never heard servants. Those who remembered.

The rest? Off with their heads, the Bed King said, and they fell like axe heads, those who only labored for their daily bowl of porridge in lieu of a potentially disemboweling loyalty to No Man, the one who wasn’t there, who had no Hero’s part.

In the end, was Penny worth a pound, after all those goddesses? On this the Epic Poet is silent.

The silence of a blind man is perfect.


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