a homeric fragment

Sing, Red, the sorrow of Pelado’s son Massimino,

Fucking sorrow what caused beef with pseudonyms

And threw friendships through life’s garlic press

Like so much garlic, so much garlic, in the sauce.

O, Do not protest that you were never there and then,

Had not occupied proximity in spacetime, for I know,

You occupy every point at once, can see the future,

And do fuck-all! But sing, in your imaginary Irish brogue,

Your lilt, of Ariadne, how, with incandescent eyes she swore

At he, for he had barged into that dorm room like Brad Pitt

In that movie about Greeks and shit, smelling of drink,

Red, red eyes teeming with tears, and lashed at her,

Was he just token friend, a pet, attention doled as table scraps,

Only suitable to demonstrate a New England open mind?

Whore-son knave, fool, and such and such was her reply, 

She bit her thumb at him and cackled without joy, fuck you,

You dare to remonstrate to me of the sin of selfishness

When you, inconstant one, are no more than a hamlet cat

Rubbing flank on every maid, yowl in the middle of the night,

Demand affection as you please, then split, and disappear

Into your tent for days, only to emerge, petulant and mute,

And publicly ignore me, your self-assigned sister-twin,

Whom you call the fawn, pale and perfect as the moon

Of the Archean. You vacillate between reverence obnoxious

And the indifference of a wastrel cad —