Heads up, piglets! I just came across this article on YT… Here’s a link:
Now maybe it’s just me… but I can’t help it… I have only one thing to say about this: FFS WHY???!!!
Well… I’m hoping this new video I’ve just posted on my YouTube channel (ie. theseustoo’s YouTube channel) will make up for the rather disappointing results of my last attempt to post some music here. At least over at YouTube it still sounds the way it did when I edited it; and if it’s not quite perfect, well, I think it ain’t that bad either! Do let me know what you think of the Burnside Refugees cover of the Grateful Dead’s ‘Casey Jones’; an old favorite of mine from a time-space far, far away…
Hope you had as much fun listening to it as we did playing it, anyway!
The solar system YD-437, in the omega sector of the eastern spiral arm of the galaxy is the most rimward-flung inhabited system in the galaxy; and though there is some suspicion of life on a few of the other planets in that solar system; and even on some of their moons; it is the third planet from the sun with which we are primarily interested.
Although some preliminary contact has been made with its inhabitants, the latter are deemed far too uncivilized for any serious engagement with galactic society; indeed, they are so aggressive a species that they constantly threaten to exterminate themselves, quite possibly along with all life on their own planet, in a nuclear conflagration, or by ignoring their effects on their environment, or by poisoning their own food and water, or even by stuffing up their own atomsphere! They seem to have survived thus far only by a combination of sheer luck and Loki’s own perversity.
Having little imagination, their various societies give their planet various names, the general semantic content of which is invariably ‘Dirt’, or ‘Soil’ or some-such… they also give their sun equally meaningless names, most of which simply mean ‘sun’; apparently they do not even know its proper name, or, I strongly suspect, even the fact that it has one. Of course, we citizens of the Galactic Federation know this primitive planet by the name of its discoverer, the legendary explorer of both the alpha and omega quadrants of the galaxy: James T. Kinnell; and of course, its distance from the galactic hub has earned it the well-deserved adjectival qualification of ‘Far’; so in the Federation’s star-charts this planet goes by the legendary name of: Far Kinnell.
On this planet, instead of using resources wisely and ensuring that everyone gets what they need, the inhabitants engage in the most ridiculous forms of the most stupid status games, for example, the competitive consumption of even their most scarce and valuable resources which often, and quite deliberately, creates artificial shortages so that a handful of their species can become enormously wealthy whilst the vast majority of them either starve or else live a hand-to-mouth existence in an unplanned and unregulated economy; little more than beasts of burden; and many, many more starve to death.
They are barbarous indeed; a most murderous and bloodthirsty species; yet each section of this species; each race, each country, each province or county, right down to each town, village or even locality, each street and each household, feels itself, both as a community, and as individuals, to be ‘god’s gift’ to the universe; ‘god’ being the fictional character on whom they choose to blame all their faults – on those rare occasions that these become actually ‘undeniable’ and not, as they usually are, verbally transformed into some kind of weird ‘virtue’; otherwise the inhabitants of Far Kinnell admit to no flaws whatsoever; yet by way of excusing themselves and each other, are frequently, and with an entirely unintended irony, known to resort to the phrase, “Nobody’s perfect!”
Anyone who dares to even suggest, however remotely, to any of their members, that any of the various societies created by this peculiar species might have even the slightest flaw in either its constitution, or in that constitution’s practical application, is severely – and socially – discredited and marginalized, while worse offenders simply ‘disappear’, never to be heard of again; consequently the brutal and totalitarian nature of their societies goes from bad to worse; with little or no effort being made at improving matters. The population are generally very supportive of their leaders and cheer very enthusiastically at all public ceremonies; knowing they dare not do otherwise, whilst public officials are praised regardless of their stupidity and incompetence and are actually rewarded for their corruption, whilst at the same time being told only those things their ‘underlings’ in the ironically named ‘public service’ feel they ‘need to know’… Though this, of course, effectively makes them little more than the puppets of various vested interest groups, they invariably fail to see this, or to recognize any conflict of interest, and insist on thinking of themselves as ‘leaders’.
Indeed, they think of themselves as having somehow been ‘Chosen’ for the job (by ‘god’ of course!) One might be forgiven for imagining that in societies which often call themselves ‘democracies’, that they are chosen by the people, because much use is made of that word; however, whilst elections on Kinnell are often are very expensive theatre productions, they appear to make little or no difference to policies, which are usually decided by the faceless monied interests who operate behind the politicians, pulling their strings by the simple and expedient means of funding both major political parties.
‘Leaders’, then, are usually chosen by ‘party’ members in ‘pre-selection’ committees, for their gullibility and manipulability, rather than for any leadership skills as such. As long as they know how to avoid responsibility and how to find suitable scapegoats for any damage they may do to their society and/or it’s economy and as long as they know how to deceive whilst telling the apparent truth in the weasel-words given to them by their faceless monied masters, they are likely to do well… for themselves, at least; and possibly their parties too, to some extent, anyway! These ‘leaders’, however, often do enormous damage to their world and even to their own societies, all for the sake of the elevated income and social prestige their public office gives them, and, having been chosen for their crookedness, they are often praised for so doing… such is the insanity of this race!
I, Zebulon Sprokkit, have been charged by the High Council of the Galactic Federation, in the wake of the recent frightening attack on our city at the South Pole, with the task of observing and reporting on the activities of this strange and frightening species. As they have recently discovered computers and evolved an e-space network called the ‘internet’, which gives one access to global news regardless of where one is on the planet, I have decided that, rather than take up residence in a major population centre, like the continents of Murka, Uropp or Aysha where it could be all too easy to end up being forced to choose sides in their politics (and, maybe, even forced to choose the wrong side!), that I should get a more objective perspective by living in a relative cultural and political backwater… For these reasons I have decided to live on the continent known by the locals as ‘Straya’, in the state of South Oz, in the deceptively pretty capital city of Madeleine.
My saucer was stolen in the unprecedented and devastating raid by only two primitives on the secret underground city we had established at the South Pole for wealthy intergalactic tourists who wish to ‘explore’ such a primitive planet. Many of these tourists appear, more often than not, to forget the ‘no de-cloaking in front of the Kinnellers’ rule, I might add! If it keeps up it will be extremely hard to keep the existence of the Galactic Federation a secret, as ordered! Our mind-control staff are working flat out convincing people the UFOs everyone keeps seeing aren’t real!
It would also make my job immeasurably more difficult if the indigenes should ever get wind that I’m not really a Kinneller, who, of course, call themselves, ‘Earthlings’. Although we still have many of their leaders under our control, and the vast majority of the Earthlings are still convinced by the propaganda we’ve been subliminally feeding them for the past few centuries (local time), there are some Earthlings out there who have discovered that they can avoid our brain-programming rays by wearing hats made out of tin-foil, who are starting to become problematic. Whilst there is little they can do at present because they are still too easily dismissed as ‘loonies’ the number is fast growing of trained observers in positions of great responsibility who now also claim to have seen ‘Unidentified Flying Objects’ and who are beginning to wear tinfoil hats…
I would appreciate a strongly-worded directive from the Ministry of Galactic Tourism to those tour operators who have not been observing proper cloaking protocols, that they either commence to do so, or face having their operator’s licences revoked; we can’t risk the humans realising our actual presence just yet… Should it start to be believed that we are here, it is likely to trigger off the nuclear conflagration dreaded by both Earthlings themselves, and, I’m sure I don’t have to remind you, our own Galactic Federation.
Zebulon Sprokkit, Reporting from Madeleine, South Oz. Star-date: 020120013
Over and out!
Story by Astyages
Gotta get this down while I can still remember it all… before THEY wipe my memory! But I don’t want to jump the gun! I must start at the very beginning…
So there I was, just a few days ago, sitting there at home minding my own business… Having fallen asleep watching old episodes of ‘Porridge’, I found myself rudely awakened by a sudden loud cursing in some strange, probably Scandinavian language, apparently coming from above and behind me. I turned my neck so quick I think I damn near dislocated it! But what I saw gave me such a shock I immediately forgot that pain… for there, dangling from the trapdoor which leads to the mysterious and hitherto unexplored regions of my loft, was the bottom half of a rather rotund gentleman clad in an ermine-lined, red velvet jacket and a pair of black moleskins over a pair of shiny leather boots, the tops of which were similarly fur-lined. At this stage his top half was invisible as the gent appeared to be stuck there… (and Gord alone knows how he got there, ’cause my roof hasn’t got a chimney!)
I instantly divined his problem: his jacket had got all rucked-up and was adding far more than was necessary to the stranger’s already impressive girth. I limped the few steps from my chair to the place underneath the trapdoor and, reaching up with the ‘reaching stick’ the insurance company had provided me with when I first had my accident, I started tugging at the jacket… As soon as I had pulled enough of it down to easy the jam the stranger fell down through the hole, skittling me in the process. The weighty gent picked himself up with remarkable agility and then bent down to offer me a hand. I took it and allowed myself to be pulled to my feet by a figure I never in my wildest dreams ever imagined I would ever meet, for standing there, right in front of my was a red-capped, bespectacled, white-bearded, red-cheeked fellow who could be none other than Santa Claus…
“Crikey!” I exclaimed aloud, “Those bloody painkillers must be stronger’n I thought… I’m hallucinating!”
“Ho-ho-ho!” The figure in red said, adjusting his jacket underneath his belt, “You not hallucinating minheer! You seein’ da real Santa Claus! Who yust picked you up from da floor? When you ever actually feel a hallucination? A hallucination strong enough to lift you up, ja?”
He had a point there… but I was cagey: “How do I know you’re the real Santa Claus and not just an imposter? I mean, there’s lot of ’em about at this time of year!”
“No problem!” he said… “Who else would bring you chrissie prezzie…?” I was astounded; I’d lived alone for so long I’d virtually forgotten about prezzies. Curious, I couldn’t resist asking, “Ah… What prezzie?” It was only then I noticed the large sack which had come through the trapdoor with him, as he put his hand inside it and pulled out a Les Paul guitar! Now, I’m a pretty cynical dude and not easily convinced when it comes to believing in fairytales, but Les Pauls don’t lie… this dude had to be Santa!
“Wow!” I said… and then, as I reached forward to take the guitar from him, I intoned, “I do believe in fairies! I do believe in fairies…!” just in case it should turn out to be a dream. But the ‘dream’ didn’t fade as I took the guitar in hand and plugged it into my amplifier; and the first few notes, amplified by those superb double-coiled, humbucking pickups, left me in no doubt; the guitar was real! So Santa must be real too!
“But hang on a sec, Santa! How come I get a prezzie this year? And why such an expensive prezzie too? I mean, all my life all I’ve had are socks’n’jox and maybe an occasional fishing rod, but I’ve never ever had such an expensive prezzie; and it’s just EXACTLY what I wanted… There’s something suspicious going on here…”
“Aha, mein freund!” the fat man said, “You are so sharp! You never miss a trick! Zat’s why you were chosen… And I have to admit zat ze reason you haven’t had so many prezzies in ze past is ‘coz you bin a naughty fella for so long… But ziss year is different; ziss year we need your help… ze guitar is a teensy-weensy bribe…”
But before he could explain further, there was a lot of scuffling noises from the ceiling above us and then several, dwarf-like creatures with grey-green skin, huge bulbous heads and large black, almond-shaped eyes, descended from the trapdoor. Each of them held something in their right hands; and as Santa suddenly fell silent and raised his hands. Santa’s reaction could only mean one thing: ‘they can only be ray-guns!’ I thought…
I also thought it wise to immediately put down the Les Paul and follow suit…
After exchanging several series of what can only be described as clicking noises with his two assistants the tallest of the dwarf-like creatures, who was evidently their boss, said, “I’m taking you both to our leader!”
“Shouldn’t that be the other way round?” I said, without thinking.
“Ah, but you, my dear Astyages, recognize no leaders; in your former incarnation you were a king of kinds; in this one you are an individual who, though poor, recognizes no master; it is for these reasons that you have been chosen… And as for Santa… The Master has his own reasons for wanting to see him!”
I hated the thought of being ‘chosen’ for anything… it smacked of responsibility and worse, seemed to imply the probability of work!
“Then you’ll just have to choose someone else, won’t you?” The grey dwarf, who I now realized was an actual, bona fide alien, just silently raised his ray-gun level with my forehead and allowed the corners of his slit-like mouth to raise into something which was not quite a smile. “Oh, alright then… If I must, I suppose I must…”
I could spend whole chapters describing the journey we next underwent; how we traveled in a flying saucer to the South Pole, fighting off American fighter planes from the US fleet all the way across the Southern Ocean, ’til we finally flew down into an immense cavern which took us deep into a world which I now realized was REALLY hollow!
In a fantastic underground city we were taken to a building which would have dwarfed the twin towers and given the Empire State Building a good run for its money, where we ascended to the penthouse suite which the Master was currently using as a pied-a-terre. As we ascended in the lift, I wondered why I’d been chosen and for what… I’d attempted to get further information from the greys during the flight but they remained silent and refused to make any comment.
Finally the greys escorted us through a luxurious apartment and out onto a rooftop garden which would have put the Hanging Gardens of Babylon to shame, and there, sitting on a chaise-longue drinking gin and tonic, was the Master, who I couldn’t help but think looked a lot like Jimi Hendrix…
Using telekinesis, the greys forced Santa and I to our knees, with our foreheads to the floor, as if salaaming… “Let them up you idiots!” the Master said, “I need their willing cooperation!”
The Master didn’t realise it, but he had just made his first mistake; whatever it was he needed my cooperation for, I most certainly was NOT going to oblige him!
“Forgive those stupid Greys,” the Master said, “they are one of the most uncivilized species in this galaxy! No manners at all!”
“What do you want with us?” Santa demanded. “Why have you brought us here?”
“I’ve brought you here because you two are the last ‘hold-outs’… the last two people on the whole of planet earth who have not somehow been subverted, brainwashed, bought or otherwise incorporated within structures which are ultimately owned by the Illuminati. Surely you’ve suspected…?” We both nodded silently, “I’ve known for some time…” Santa said, then, turning to me he added “I was trying to warn you when we were so rudely interrupted… and brought here…”
“You will be used as ‘Judas goats’; we will first brainwash you then program you to be the most zealous advocates of our cause; from the human perspective you will be leading the exodus from the doomed planet earth to travel to another earth-like planet in the constellation of Arcturus… You’ll act as travel-agents as well as poster-boys for our human migration plan to our home-world…”
The Master must feel confident of himself, I thought, if he could afford to give away such staggering details, even in such a tiny slip… but the words ‘human’, and ‘homeworld’ in the same sentence told me I was dealing with aliens here… Space aliens, or inter-dimensional ones? I wondered, but had little chance to find out, as the Master explained that the purpose of migrating the whole human population to Arcturus was so they can be farmed as fodder and used as slave labour… but we two would live like kings… with every one of our senses most abundantly gratified in all kinds of imaginative ways…
I’d heard enough; the time had come to act! If I waited any longer they’d isolate me and then start to work on me psychologically; if I acted now at least I might have some element of surprise as they wouldn’t be expecting either of us to resist the three armed guards who had escorted us and who were still aiming their weapons at us… Moving suddenly, and hoping Santa would realize what I was doing and at least just move himself out of the line of fire, I put myself at the center of a cross with three Greys to my left, right and in front of me, desperately hoping my sudden movement would trigger the precise reaction it did: the Greys all instantly pointed their weapons at me, but just as they fired, I dived into a combat roll aimed at the feet of the one in front of me…
The Greys to the right and left of me were instantly vaporized by their own ray-guns, while the third Grey hit the Master with a glancing shot that left him seriously concussed and winded, as I came out of my combat roll onto to my knee, finishing the roll with a punch to the groin which thankfully turned out to be as painful for the Grey as it is for humans. He dropped his weapon as he doubled up, whimpering in a foetus-position on the floor as I carefully took aim and vaporized him.
I went across to the Master and saw he was wearing some kind of mask which had been damaged to reveal reptilian scales underneath the human-like face… I knew it could never have been Jimi! There was not even a single guitar in sight! This was just another psychological ploy to gain my sympathy and trust… Mercilessly, I zapped the Lizard-man into oblivion.
Finally turning my attention to Santa, I realized he was not entirely surprised by my actions… I gave him a quizzical look, with my head tilted to one side… “You were expecting this, weren’t you?”
“Errr… Ummm… ahhh… let’s just say, ‘hoping’ shall we? But yes, I was rather relying on your skills as a martial artist… Now, quickly, we must get out of here before any more of them come! We can hijack a saucer; I was watching how they operated them on the way here…”
“Yeah, me too!” I said… “Now let’s go!”
The ray-guns made it easy for us to get out of the building and into the private car-park where our guard had previously parked their flying saucer (I must use this term now, as they are not ‘UFO’s any more!)
Speed, surprise and a couple of zaps from the ray-guns took care of the guards; and, if we’d both been watching them to learn how to fly the saucer, I’d also been keenly observing how they operated their weapons systems… As we flew out over the underground city I saw my target and yelled at Santa to head towards it as we fought off a small fleet of half-a-dozen more flying discs… After finally shooting down the last of these I had just enough time to aim and hit the ‘fire’ button to loose a photon torpedo at what had looked to me very much like the city’s nuclear power-station. We saw the explosion and the beginnings of an unmistakeable ‘mushroom’ cloud behind us as the shock-wave finally hit us… Tilting the saucer at an angle, I found I could ‘surf’ the shock-wave ’til we finally shot out of the cavern’s opening like a bullet from a gun… In the rear-view screens we could clearly see that our explosion had started a chain-reaction as the major buildings of the whole city were blasted into their component atoms.
Of course, we took the long way ’round on the way home, to avoid having to fight the US fleet in the Southern Ocean, ’cause those guys shoot first and ask questions later! But as soon as we got home I’ve prepared this report for YouTube; the world MUST be warned; though I shall post it under a pseudonym. The Lizardmen’s dastardly plan, which had been scheduled to start on 21/12/12 has, I think, suffered a serious setback, but sooner or later, they will be back from Planet X with another attempt to turn us all into lizard-fodder! In the meantime, NOW is the time to turn against your Illuminati masters, who will be weakened at least temporarily by the absence of the Master…
Anyway, now you all know why the world didn’t actually end on 21/12/12 as it was supposed to; Santa and I have managed to buy it a temporary reprieve, but how long that will last is unknown; in the meantime, Santa assures me that he will not let this little escapade interfere with his usual Christmas duties and I’ve let him keep the flying saucer to help him with this… so, without undue modesty, I can truthfully say that I have not only saved the world, but Christmas too! With Santa’s help, of course!
Happy Christmas piglets!
Story by Astyages
Okay fellow piglets, here is the article I’ve been tantalizing you with and for which you have all waited so long! But you’d better fasten your seat-belts and hang on to your tidfer’s ladies and gents, ’cause we’re in for a bumpy ride!
The first problem in any survey of conspiracy theories is their overwhelming overabundance; where does one start… We could start with what happened to all the German scientists after the end of WWII, or we could begin by looking at a more modern phenomenon: UFOs.
Now as a sci-fi fan since childhood, I’ve always kinda wanted to believe in UFOs, but, at least, prior to this survey, the rationalist in me would have put its probability somewhere between virtually absolutely nil and absolutely nil… And yet…
Once we were told there were no such thing as UFOs which led some to speculate that perhaps the whole UFO phenomenon wasn’t perhaps a smokescreen for the USAAF’s own experimental aircraft. ‘Cover-up!’ was the catch-cry when rumors of Roswell reverberated around to globe to the accompaniment of some somewhat less than convincing alien interviews and autopsies.
On the other hand, in the USA, there is currently an ongoing UNCOVER-UP operation surrounding UFO’S, aliens of all the interplanetary and/or interdimensional kinds and all kinds of apparently well-qualified, sensible and serious people, people who have themselves actually worked at area 51, have come forward and admitted to having reverse-engineered alien spacecraft; we are informed by such sources that 95% of UFO phenomena are ‘our own birds’… the other 5%, we are informed, belong to ‘aliens’. Now, to the objection that interplanetary space-travel is, at least to the best of our knowledge, impossible because of the immense time/spaces involved, the ufologists have come up with the notion that ‘aliens’ are indeed, not interplanetary, but interdimensional, beings, who, as any sci-fi fan from the fifties can readily tell you, come back to save their future world from some kind of evolutionary dead-end… Now THIS is where Planet X and the lizardmen come in… Those I refer to as ‘Lizardmen from the Planet X’ (What a title for a sci-fi movie! I’m sure I’ve seen something somewhat similar at some stage in my sci-fi subscribing career…) are called by others ‘Annunaki’; and there is another race known as ‘Nephilim’… both of which – surprise, surprise! – have been prophesied in the bible… (where else?)
Now, there’s a war in ‘heaven’ (ie. Space) between these two that has been going on for at least 2,000 years… Oh, and it was are alien ‘gods’, the Annunaki and Nephilim, who built all the pyramids, don’tcha know… and taught our bronze-age ancestors all about ancient technology… (’cause they were too stupid to think of anything like experimenting or observation, or any of that scientific stuff all on their lonesome, eh?)
Anyway; the upshot of it is that it’s all coming to a head and we’re to meet our new alien overlords on 21st December 2012… which is nice, isn’t it? They’ll arrive just in time for Christmas! To save us all from a life of meaningless overindulgence… S’pose they’ll probably begin by banning it! I, for one, won’t miss it in the slightest!
Ah! But then there’s the OTHER alien prophecy; the one that says the Annunaki are only pretending to be our mates and they’re really out to ‘harvest’ us to take all back to their planet to farm us for lizard-feed; though it’s anyone’s guess as to why they’ve waited 2,000 years or more. And of course, if the Annunaki were the satanic, snakelike aliens – the ‘fallen ones’ in the bible’ – the Nephilim are the ‘good guys’; god’s angels (who came to earth but weren’t ‘fallen’), who’re supposedly gonna bring back Jesus to save us all from the Annunaki and… well… who-knows what really? Becoming lizard-feed, I suppose…
Once upon a time the FAA told the American public it was not interested in hearing any more UFO reports; the government was very much in denial about the fact that there was a genuine phenomenon to be investigated. It ostracized and lampooned anyone who attempted to report UFOs until people were generally put off reporting them for the sake of their reputations as sane people… Now there are sane and authoritative people from the army, air-force and even the police force, admitting to having seen and, in some cases, actually worked with real aliens…
It’s intriguing to note that there is also another conspiracy theory out there that says the UFO phenomenon is not a real phenomenon at all, but that, in fact, UFOs are holographic projections from all that ‘Star Wars’ hardware the space-shuttle program put into space between the ’70s and the ’90s… the aim of all these holographic lazer-shows being, of course, social control through the only means the American government, apparently, knows: fear… in this instance fear of alien overlords coming to eat us on the one hand, or fear of the angels who may decide NOT to rapture humans out of the ‘tribulations’ after all! Or, perhaps they are here to judge who goes to live with them on their Nephilim homeworld (if, that is, this isn’t just a cover-story and the Nephilim are the real bad guys, ’cause after all, the Annunaki taught us technology etc…) in ‘heaven’; and who stays here to fry in what looks like it’s shaping up to be the hell of an inevitable nuclear conflagration (at least, according to this rather nihilistic prophecy).
Only ONE thing is certain about this: the US Government NOW apparently WANT us to believe in UFOs… Why? Is it at all possible they could be real? I’d love to know what you guys think…
Hang on, I hear you ask me, what has that to do with Nazi scientists after the end of WWII? Good question, and I’m glad you asked… You do realize, of course, that humanity was robbed of the possibility of universal, free, and safe electrical power by Thomas Edison, who, if history is read cynically, may possibly be implicated in the suspicious death of Nikola Tesla, who had plans to give the world unlimited, free energy? Oh? Well… you do now, anyway… Well… Tesla had plans for a whole lot of stuff, including anti-gravity machines which Hitler had built into the world’s first undisputedly real flying saucers…
My own theory is the Annunaki and Nephilim stories come from the neo-Cons and, as I’ve already said, aims at establishing social control through fear; using the gullibility – not to mention, ‘bullyability’ of the American bible-belt… But social control for what? First let’s be clear that it is GLOBAL social control we’re talking about here; and as for what… the bulk of the world’s population is to be kept in controlled ignorance while the neo-Cons destroy the world’s economy as a prelude to denuding the earth of at least 80% of its population… the result of doing the maths on the suggestion by the Georgia Guidestones, that the world’s population be kept under half a billion…
And how is this ‘desirable’ population-level to be achieved? Oh, through wars where there’s another interest to make going to war ‘on the ground’ necessary; otherwise, primarily through manipulated and engineered natural disasters as a result of using HAARP as a weapon; there are those who already believe the Fukushima tsunami was the result of a HAARP attack. The USA also has a whole range of other, formidable, sonic weapons, some designed specifically for crowd control… Oh, and the other major methodology of depopulation is to be starvation, even in the midst of plenty! Two words you should all investigate are these: ‘Codex Alimentarius’… in this heinous document, about nine or ten of the world’s absolute WORST food pollutants, which were regulated against because they were so heinous, are now to be allowed back into our diet… (You already know that thalidomide is back on the market again, don’t you?) And the world’s food is to be genetically engineered so that it will contain no nutritional content whatsoever…
Now, as a disbeliever, I might derive some relief from my straining incredulity when I discovered how many of these conspiracy theories actually come from some pretty fundamentalist christian sources; but that doesn’t mean there’s nothing to worry about… Alex Jones, for instance does an excellent job of scaring the shit out of people (me included!) by secretly filming inside the Bohemian Grove on the night of the Skull’n’Bones Club’s annual ‘Burning of Care’ ritual, which amounts to the sacrifice, in human effigy, of ‘Care’… or, in other words, their consciences!
Check it out for yourselves: http://youtu.be/FpKdSvwYsrE
Regardless of Alex Jones’ own personal belief’s and motivations, (and I DO think he’s doing his thing for the benefit of his country…) this is a serious worry… Supposedly 46 presidents of the USA have belonged to this club… which is a front, of course, for the illuminati, who are all (neo-Cons, I’m sure!) getting themselves as rich as Croesus while their own country’s and the world’s economies crash around their ears. In certain circles, Obama has been likened to Nero!
When most of the ‘rulers of the free world’ are all members of the same secret society(s), I’d say there’s something SERIOUS to worry about… One can no longer even think of the USA and ‘Democracy’ as having anything to do with each other, except insofar as the word is used, together with some remarkably impressive pieces of street-theatre (called ‘elections’) to lead the sheeple by the nose while they are first fleeced and then sent to the slaughter…
Whew! Well… that’s not all there is to it, of course… but I hope it’s enough to start a discussion! If discussion seems brisk and interesting enough perhaps I’ll write a sequel… In the meantime, here’s something for you all to think about:
And in case you think, ‘Oh, that’s just those stupid yanks!’, check this out:
(Disclaimer: I have the excuse of being paranoid; however, I cannot be held responsible if any of this information should happen to upset your reality. Asty)
My dear fellow piglets, this final episode of ‘Bilitis’ details the final decline and demise of the now-aging courtesan… It is also my ‘farewell’ to you all, as I intend to take a long break from the pub. I have a strange intuition that somehow or other I am responsible for the recent sudden mass exodus of piglets which seems to have left the front bar so bereft of clientele. If this is indeed the case, then I can only assume that I must have said or done something pretty bad to offend someone or other, and for this offense, whatever it is, I do most sincerely apologize. I only hope that my prolonged absence may eventually prompt their return…
Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this final piece, as I quote the words of Scott of the Antarctic, “I’m going outside now… I might be gone for some time…” (Asty)
BILITIS: Elegies at Mytilene, (part 2)
131 – THE JUGGLER
When the first dawn mingled with the
weakening glimmer of the torches, I introduced to
the orgy a flute player, defective and nimble [?vicieuse et agile? contradictory!]
who trembled a bit, being cold.
Hire the little girl with the blue eyelids,
with short hair, with pointy breasts, clothed
only in a girdle, from which hung some
yellow ribbons and some stalks of black irises.
Hire her! Because she was clever and did some
difficult turns. She juggled with some
hoops, without breaking anything in the room, and
slid across it like a grasshopper.
Occasionally she performed cartwheels [‘… faisait la roué sur les mains et sur les pieds’] Or with two arms in
the air and her knees apart she bent herself
backwards and touched the earth, laughing.
132 — THE FLOWER DANCE
Anthis, the dancer from Lydia, has seven veils
around her. She unrolls the yellow veil,
her black hair spills out. The pink veil
slides from her mouth. The white veil falls
letting us see her naked arms.
She releases her small breasts from the red veil
which she unravels. She drops the green veil from
her hips to her feet. She pulls the
blue veil from her shoulders, but she presses
on her modesty the last, transparent veil.
The young people beg her: she shakes her
head back. To the sound of flutes alone,
she tears it away just a little, then entirely, and,
with the gestures of the dance, she plucks
flowers from her body,
Singing, “Where are my roses, where are my
perfumed violets? Where are my sprigs of
parsley? – There are my roses, I give them to you.
There are my violets, do you want them? There is
my beautiful curly parsley.”
133 – SATYRA’S DANCE (not translated)
134 – MYDZOURIS CROWNED (not translated)
135 — VIOLENCE
No, you will not take me by force, it doesn’t
count, Lamprias. If you had heard said
that someone had violated Parthenis, you know
what that puts in her breast, because no-one enjoys us
without being invited.
Oh! Away from your betters, make some effort, it’s
missing. Meanwhile I protect myself from pain.
I shall not call for help. And I
shall not even struggle; but I move. Poor friend,
Continue. This little game amuses me. In the same proportion
that I am sure to vanquish you. One more unhappy
attempt, and perhaps you will be less
disposed to prove to me your extinct desires.
Tyrant, what are you doing! Dog! You’re breaking
my wrists! And this knee is disembowelling me!
Ah! Go, now, it is a beautiful victory,
to ravish a tearful young girl on the ground.
136 – SONG
The first gave me a necklace, a necklace of
pearls which was worth [?’…qui vaut…’] a town, with the palace and
the temples, and the treasures and the slaves.
The second made me some verses. He said
that my hair was black as the
night on the sea and my eyes were blue like
The third was so beautiful that his mother
could not kiss him without blushing. He put his
hand on my knees, and his lips on my
You, you have said nothing to me. You have given
me nothing, because you are poor. And you are not
beautiful, but it is you that I love.
137 – ADVICE TO A LOVER
If you wish to be loved by a woman, oh young
friend, such as she, don’t tell her that
you want her, but make her see you every
day, then disappear, so you can return.
If she addresses her words to you, be amorous
without being too earnest. She will come to you
by herself. Know then, to take her by force, the
day she intends to give herself to you.
When you receive her into your bed, forget
about your own pleasure. The hands of a woman
in love are trembling and without caresses.
Dispense with them to be zealous.
But you, take no rest. Prolong
your embraces until you lose your breath. Do not let
her sleep, even if she begs you. Always
kiss the part of her body towards which
she turns her eyes.
138 – FRIENDS AT DINNER
Myromeris and Maskhale, my friends, come with
me, because I have no lover this evening, and,
lying on beds of [?’byssos’], we
will chat over dinner.
A night of rest will do you good: you
will sleep in my bed, even without make-up and
un-coiffed. Put on a simple tunic of wool
and leave your jewels in their chest.
No-one will make you dance to admire your
legs and the heavy movements of your loins.
no-one will ask you for sacred symbols,
to judge if you are lovers.
And I have not commanded, for us, two
flute-players with beautiful mouths, but
two cooking-pots of peas, rissoles, some
honey-cakes, some fried croquettes and my last
wine-skin from Khios.
139 – TOMB OF A YOUNG COURTESAN
Here is housed the delicate body of Lydia, little
dove, the most joyous of all the
courtesans, who more than any other loved
orgies, her floating hair, the soft
dances and tunics of hyacinth.
More than any other she loved savoury [?’glottismes?]
kisses on the cheek, the games
which the lamp alone saw and love which broke
her limbs to pieces. And now, she is a
But before she was put in her tomb, she was
marvellously coiffed and laid
among roses; even the stone which covers her
is all impregnated with essences and perfumes.
Sacred earth, nurturer of all, welcome
gently the poor dead, let her sleep in
your arms oh Mother! And let grow all around
the stele, not nettles and brambles, but
delicate white violets.
140 – THE LITTLE ROSE-SELLER
“Yesterday,” Nais told me, “I was in the square,
when a little girl in red rags
passed, carrying roses, in front of a group of
young people. And here is what I heard:
“Buy something from me.” – “Explain yourself,
little one, because we don’t know what your are selling:
You? Your roses? Or both at once?” — “If
you buy all my flowers, you may have
the seller for nothing.”
“And how much do you want for your roses?” — “I must have
six obols for my mother or else I shall be beaten
like a dog.” – “Follow us. You shall have one
drachma.” – “Then shall I go and look for my little sister?”
“This child was not a courtesan, Bilitis,
nobody knew her. Truly is it not a
scandal… and shall we tolerate these girls
coming to dirty during the day the beds which
we rely upon during the evening?”
141 – THE DISPUTE
Ah! By Aphrodite, there you are! Bloodsucker!
Putrefaction! Stinker! Barren! Riff-raff [?‘carcan’?]!
Left-hander! Good-for-nothing! Sow!
Don’t try to run away from me, but come here…
And again closer still…
See me, this sailors’ woman, who
doesn’t even know how to pleat her robe over
her shoulder and who puts on such bad make-up that
the black from her eyelashes runs down her cheek
in rivers of ink.
You are Phoenician: sleep with those of
your own race. For me, my father was Greek:
I have a right over all those who wear the [?’petase’?].
and even over the others, If I so choose.
Don’t stop any more in my street, or I’ll send you
to Hades to make love with Charon, and I
shall say very justly, “May the earth rest
lightly upon you…”
So the dogs can dig you up!
142 – MELANCHOLY
I shiver; the night is cool, and the
forest all moist. Why have you brought me
here? Isn’t my big bed
sweeter than this moss strewn with stones?
My flowery dress will be stained with greenery
my hair will be tangled with twigs;
my neck, look at my neck,
how soiled it is already by the humid earth.
Of old however, I’d have followed into these
woods here… Ah! Leave me alone for little while.
I am sad, this evening. Leave me, without speaking,
hands over my eyes.
In truth, can you not wait! Are
we brute beasts to take each other
thus! Leave me alone. You shall not open my
knees nor my lips. My eyes even, from
fear of crying, are closed.
143 – LITTLE PHANION
Stranger, stop, look who has beckoned
you: it’s little Phanion from Kos, she
deserves that you choose her.
See, her hair is frizzy as parsley,
her skin is sweet as a bird’s down.
She is small and brown. She speaks well.
If you wish to follow her, she will not ask
for all the money from your voyage; no, but
one drachma or a pair of shoes.
You will find at her house a good bed, some fresh
figs, some milk, some wine, and, if it is
cold, there will be a fire.
144 – SIGNS
If you must have, passer-by who stops, slender
thighs and nervous loins, a hard
throat, knees which grip, go to the house of
Plango, she’s my friend.
If you’re looking for a laughing girl, with
exuberant breasts, of a delicate height, her crutch
fleshy and moist [‘grasse’], go to the corner
of this street, where lives Spidorrhodellis.
But if long tranquil hours in the
arms of a courtesan with sweet skin,
a warm belly and pleasantly scented hair
look for Milto, and you will be content.
Do not hope for much from love; but
profit from her experience. One can ask
all from a woman, when she is naked,
when it is night, and when the hundred drachmas
are on the mantel.
145 – THE SELLER OF WOMEN
“Who is there?” — “I am the seller of
women. Open the door, Sostrata, I have
presented to you on two occasions before this one.
Approach, Anasyrtolis, and undo your robe.” –“She
is a bit fat.”
“She is a beauty. What’s more, she dances
the Kordax and she knows eighty
songs.” – “Turn around. Lift your arms.
Show your hair. Give me your foot. Smile. That’s good.
This one, now.” – “She is too
young!” — “No she’s not, she was twelve years old
the day before yesterday, and you would not have to teach
her anything.” – “Remove your tunic. Let’s see? No, she
is too thin.”
“I’m only asking one mina.” – “And the
first?” – “Two minas thirty.” – “Three minas
for both of them?” – “Done!”. “Go in there
and wash yourselves. You, farewell.”
146 – THE STRANGER
Stranger, go no further into the town.
You will not find elsewhere but in my house
girls younger or more expert. I am
Sostrata, famous across the sea.
See this one whose eyes are green
as water in the grass. You don’t want her?
Here are some other eyes which are black as
violets, and hair three cubits long.
I have still better. Xantho, open your [?cyclas?].
Stranger, her breasts are hard as quinces,
Touch them. And her beautiful belly, as you see,
wears the three folds of Kypris.
I bought her with her sister, who is not yet
of an age to love, but who seconds her
usefully. By the two goddesses! You are of a
noble race. Phyllis and Xantho, follow the
147 – PHYLLIS (not translated)
148 — THE MEMORY OF MNASIDIKA
They danced one in front of the other, with
rapid, flying movements; seeming
always to want to be entwined, and yet they
never touched at all, except at the tips of their lips.
When they turned their back in dancing,
they looked at each other over their shoulders,
and the sweat shone on their raised arms,
and their fine hair brushed across their breasts.
The languor of their eyes, the fire of their
cheeks, the gravity of their faces, were
three earnest songs. They brushed against each other
furtively, bowing their bodies at the hips.
and suddenly, they fell, to
perform on the ground a softer dance [la danse molle]… Memory
of Mnasidika, it was then that you appeared to me,
and everything, outside your dear image, was tiresome.
149 – THE YOUNG MOTHER
Do not believe, Myromeris, that, having become a
mother, that you will be diminished in beauty. See here, how
your body under your dress has drowned its thin
form within a voluptuous softness.
Your breasts are two vast flowers inverted
on your chest, whose cut stems
nurture a milky sap. Your belly,
sweeter still, swoons under the hand.
And now consider the tiny little child
which is born from the thrills that you had one
evening in the arms of a passer-by whose name you
no longer know. Dream of her remote destiny.
Her eyes which opened to pain will be elongated
one day with a line of black paint, and they
will sprinkle over men sadness or joy,
with a movement of their lashes.
150 — THE UNKNOWN
He’s sleeping. I don’t know him. He
horrifies me. However, his purse is full of gold
and he gave a slave four drachmas when he
came in. I hope for a mina for myself.
But I have said to the Phrygian to get into the bed
in my place. He was drunk and mistook her for
me. I would sooner die on the
rack than to stretch out next to this man.
Alas! I dream of the prairies of the Taurus…
I had been a little virgin… Then, I had a
light chest, and I was so foolish with a
lover’s envy that I hated my married sisters.
What would I not have done to obtain that which
I refuse tonight! Today, my
breasts are shapeless [‘se plient’], and in my worn-out
heart too, Eros sleeps from weariness.
151 – TRICKERY
I wake up… Is he gone then? Did he
leave anything? No: two empty
amphorae and some soiled flowers. The whole carpet
is red with wine.
I slept, but I am still drunk… With
whom then, did I come home?… Nevertheless we
slept together. The bed is even soaked
Perhaps there were several; the bed is
such a mess [si bouleverse] I don’t know any more… But I
saw them! There’s my Phrygian! Still
sleeping across the door.
I kicked her in the chest
and I shouted, “Bitch, you couldn’t…”
I was so hoarse I couldn’t speak.
152 – THE LAST LOVER
Child, do not pass by without having loved me.
I am still beautiful, in the night; you will see
how much my warmer is my autumn than the
springtime of another.
Do not look for love from virgins. Love
is a difficult art in which young girls are
little versed. I have taught them all my
life to give to my last lover.
My last lover, it will be you, I know.
Here is my mouth, for which a whole people [pour laquelle un peuple a…]
have paled with desire. Here is my hair, the same
hair that Psappho the Great sang about.
I shall receive in your favour all that
is left to me of my lost youth. I shall burn
the memories themselves. I shall give you
the flute of Lykas, the girdle of Mnasidika.
153 – THE DOVE
I have already been beautiful for a long time; the day
is coming when I will no longer be a woman. And then I
shall know torn memories, the
solitary burning envies and the tears
in my hands.
If life is a long dream, what good is it
to resist it? Now, four and five times a
night I ask for the joy of love, and
when my flanks are exhausted I sleep where
my body falls.
In the morning, I opened my eyelids and I
shudder in my hair. A dove is
on my windowsill; I asked it what month
it was. She said to me, “It is the month when
women are in love.”
Ah! Whatever the month, the dove spoke
truly, Kypris! And I throw my two arms
around my lover, and with much
trembling I pull to the foot of the bed my
Legs, still numb.
154 – THE MORNING RAIN
Night wears on. The stars disappear.
Here are the last courtesans
going home with their lovers. And me, in the
morning rain, I wrote these verses on the sand.
The leaves are full of sparkling water.
That streams across the footpath,
soaking the earth and the dead leaves.
The rain, drop by drop, makes holes
in my song.
Oh! How sad and alone I am and here! The
youngest don’t look at me; the oldest
forget me. But it’s good. They and the children of their
children are learning my verses,
There is something about which neither Myrtale, nor Thais, nor Glykera
tell themselves, the day when their beautiful cheeks
become hollow. Those who love after me
will sing my stanzas together.
155 — DEATH
Aphrodite! Unpitiable goddess, you wished
that on me also the happiness of long-haired
youth should disappear in a few days.
How is it I am not dead entirely!
I looked at myself in the mirror: I no longer
had neither smiles nor tears. Oh sweet face
that loved Mnasidika, I cannot believe that you
Could it be that it’s all finished? I no longer have
[?’vecu’?] five times eight years, it seems to me
that I was born yesterday, and already here is
what I must say: They will love me no more.
All my hair cut off, I twisted it
into my girdle and I offer it to you eternal
Kypris! I shall not cease to adore you.
This is the last verse of the pious
156 – FIRST EPITAPH
In the country where springs are born of the
sea, and where the riverbed is made of
sheets of rock, I, Bilitis, was born.
My mother was Phoenician; my father
Damophylos, Greek. My mother taught me
the songs of Byblos, sad as the
I adored Astarte in Kypris. I knew
Psappha in Lesbos. I sang as I loved.
If I have [?‘bien vecu’?], Passer-by, tell it
to your daughter.
And don’t sacrifice for me a black goat;
but, in sweet libation, press her teats
on my tomb.
157 – SECOND EPITAPH
On the sombre banks of the Melas, at Tamassos of
Pamphylia, I, daughter of Damophylos, Bilitis,
was born. I rest far from my country, as you can see.
Whilst still a child, I learned the loves of Adonis [l’Adon] and of Astarte,
the mysteries of the sacred Syrie (?) and
Death and the return to
If I was a courtesan, what blame is there in that?
Was it not my duty as a woman?
Stranger, the Mother-Of-All-Things guides us.
To misunderstand that is not prudent.
In gratitude to you who have stopped, I
wish you this destiny: Strive to be loved,
not to love. Goodbye. Remember in your
old age, that you have seen my tomb.
158 – LAST EPITAPH
Under the black leaves of the laurels, under
the beloved flowers of roses, it is here that
I am lying, I who interwove verse
Upon verse to make embraces flourish.
I grew up in the land of the Nymphs; I have
[‘vecu’] in the isle of friends; I am dead in
the Isle of Kypris. That is why my name is
illustrated and my stele rubbed with oil.
Do not cry for me, you who stop: they gave me
a beautiful funeral, the mourners
raked their cheeks; they lay my
mirrors and my necklaces in my tomb.
And now, on the pale prairies
of asphodel, I walk, an impalpable
shade, and the memory of my earthly
Life is the joy of my existence under the ground.
Songs of Bilitis by Astyages
EPIGRAMS IN THE ISLE OF CYPRUS
99 – HYMN TO ASTARTE
Unmarriageable mother, incorruptible, creatress,
self-conceived, issue of yourself alone and
who rejoices in yourself, Astarte!
Oh, perpetually fertile, oh virgin and
nourisher of all, chaste and lascivious, pure and
joyful, ineffable, nocturnal, sweet,
breather of fire, foam of the sea!
You who secretly dispenses her grace, you
who unite, you who love, you who seized by a
furious desire, multiplies the races of savage
beasts, and conjoins the sexes in the forest,
Oh, irresistible Astarte, hear me, take me,
possess me, Oh Moon! And thirteen times, each
year, tear from my entrails the libation
of my blood!
100 – HYMN TO NIGHT
The black masses of the trees don’t move
any more than the mountains. The stars
fill an immense sky. A warm breeze
like a human breath caresses my eyes
and my cheeks
Oh Night which brings forth the Gods! How
sweet you are on my lips! How warm you are
in my hair! How you enter into me
this evening, and how I feel impregnated by
The flowers which will blossom will all
come from me. The wind which sighs is my
breath. The perfume which passes is my desire.
all the stars are in my eyes.
Your voice, is it the noise of the sea, is it
the silence of the plain? Your voice, I do not
understand it, but it throws me head over
heels and my tears wash my two hands.
101 – THE MAENADS
Across the forests which dominate the sea,
the Maenads rushed. Maskhale with
the passionate breasts, howling, brandishing the
Phallus, which was of sycamore wood and
daubed with vermillion.
All, under the [?bassaris’] and the crowns
of vine-branches, ran and shouted and leaped,
the rattles [lit: ‘crotales’ = rattlesnakes?] clapped in their hands, and
the drumsticks? [?thyrses?] were bursting the skins
on the resounding drums.
Moistened hair, agile legs, breasts
reddened and disordered, sweating cheeks, foam
on their lips, Oh Dionysos, they offer
in return the ardour which you throw into them!
And the wind from the sea climbs back up to the sky
twisting the sandy hair of Heliokomis into it,
like the furious flames on a torch
of white wax.
102 – THE SEA OF KYPRIS
On the highest promontory I
lay in front. The sea was black as
a field of violets. The Milky Way
spurted [ruisselait] from the great divine breast.
A thousand Maenads around me slept in
the plucked flowers. And it is here that
the sun is born in the eastern waters.
Transferred from the same flood and the same shore
one day appeared the white body
of Aphrodite… Suddenly I hid my
eyes in my hands.
Because I saw, trembling on the water a thousand
little lips of light: pure sex or the
smile of Kypris Philommeides.
103 – THE PRIESTESSES OF ASTARTE
The priestesses of Astarte made love at
the rising of the moon; then they rose again and
bathed in a vast, silver-edged basin.
With their curved fingers, they combed
their hair, and their hands tinted with
purple, tangled by their black rings,
seeming like branches of coral in a
sombre and flooding sea.
They never pluck their hair, so that the
triangle of the goddess marks their bellies
as a temple; but they tint themselves[?se teignent?] with
paintbrushes and profoundly perfume themselves.
The priestesses of Astarte make love at
the setting of the moon; then in a
carpeted room where burns a bright golden lamp, they
sleep at random.
104 – THE MYSTERIES
In the thrice mysterious enclosure, where
men never penetrate, we feasted,
Astarte of the Night, Mother of the World,
Fountain of the life of the Gods!
I shall reveal something to you, but no
more than is permitted. Around the Phallus
Crown, a hundred and twenty women swayed [‘se balancaient’
and shouted. The initiates were in men’s clothes;
The others in split tunics.
The vapours of the perfumes, the smoke from the
torches, floated between us like
clouds. I shall cry smokey tears.
Everyone, at the feet of the Borbeia,
threw ourselves onto our backs.
Finally, when the religious Act was consummated,
and when, into the Unique Triangle we had
plunged the purple phallus, then the mystery
began, but I can tell you no more about it.
105 — THE EGYPTIAN COURTESANS
I went with Plango to the house of the Egyptian
courtesans, at the top of the old town.
There were earthen amphorae, plates of
copper and yellow straw mats where they
Their bedrooms were silent, without
angles and without corners, so that the
successive couches of blue limestone were blunt at the
cornices and rounded at the foot of the walls
They held themselves immobile, their hands
placed on their knees. When they offer us
porridge, they murmured, “Happiness.”
And when we thanked them, they said,
“Thanks to you.”
They understood Greek but pretended to
speak it badly so they could laugh at us in their own
language; but, tooth for tooth, we
spoke Lydian and they were suddenly worried.
106 — I SING MY FLESH AND MY LIFE
I shall certainly not sing of famous
lovers. If they are no more, why should
we speak of them? Am I not similar to them?
Do I too not have much to dream about myself?
I shall forget you, Pasiphae, even though your passion
was extreme. I shall not hire you, Syrinx
nor you, Byblis, nor you, by the goddess, of
all choices, Helen of the white arms!
If anyone suffered, I felt nothing but their
pain. If anyone loved, I loved more.
I sing of my flesh and my life, and not of
the sterile shades of interred lovers.
Lie there, oh my body, according to your voluptuous
mission! Savour the daily delights
and the passions with no tomorrow.
Do not leave with even one delight unknown to regret
at the day of your death.
107 — PERFUME
I shall perfume my skin all over to attract
lovers. On my beautiful legs, in
a basin of silver, I shall pour oil [?’nard’?] of
Tarsus and [?metopion?] from Egypt.
Under my arms, crispy [?crepue?] mint; on
my eyelashes and on my eyes, some [?margolaine?]
from Kos. Slave, let down my hair and
fill it with the smoke from the incense.
Here is [?l’oinanthe’] from the mountains of Kypris; I
let it trickle down between my breasts; the pink liqueur
which comes from Pharsalis [?Phaselis?] embalms my
neck and my cheeks.
And now, spread over my loins the
irresistible [?bakkaris?]. It is well, for
a courtesan, to know the perfumes of
Lydia and the customs of the Peloponnese.
108 – CONVERSATION
“Hello.” — “Hello also.” – “You’re in
A hurry.” – “Perhaps less than you
think.” – “You are a pretty girl.” – “Perhaps
more than you believe.”
– “What is your charming name?” — “I will not
tell you that so quickly.” – “You have someone this
evening?” – “Always the one who loves me.” – “And
How do you love him?” – “As he wishes.”
“Let’s sup together.” – “If you want.
But what will you give me?” — “This here.” – “Five drachmas?
That’s for my slave. And for me?”
“Say yourself.” – “A hundred.”
“Where do you live?” – “In this blue
house.” – “What time shall I send someone
to look for you?” – “Right away, if you like.”
– “Right away.” – “Go in front.”
109 — THE TORN DRESS
“Hey! By the two goddesses, who was
the insolent one who has put her foot on my
dress?” – “It was a lover.” – “It was an idiot.”
“I was clumsy, forgive me.”
“Imbecile! My yellow dress is all
torn at the back, and if I walk down
the street like that, they’ll take me for a
poor girl who serves the contrary Kypris.”
“Will you not stop?” — “I believe that he’s
Talking to me again!” – “Will you leave me thus
angry?… You don’t answer?” — “Alas!
I dare speak no more.”
“I really must go home
to change my dress.” – “And can I not follow
you?” – “Who is your father?” — “He’s the
rich armourer, Nikias.” – “You have beautiful
eyes, I’ll forgive you.”
110 – THE JEWELS
A diadem of gold [?ajoure?] crowns my narrow
white forehead. Five little chains of gold, which
surround my cheeks and my chin,
are suspended from my hair by two large
On my arms which Iris would envy, thirteen
silver bracelets are attached. How heavy
they are! But they are weapons; and I know
an enemy who has suffered by them.
I am truly all covered in gold. My
breasts are cuirasses with two pectorals of gold.
The images of the gods are not as rich as I am.
And I wear on my thick dress a girdle
spangled with silver. There you can read this verse:
“Love me eternally; but do not be
Dismayed if I deceive you three times a day.”
111 – THE INDIFFERENT ONE
Since he came into my bedroom, what
was he like (is that important?): “See,”
I said to the slave, “What a handsome man! And
that a courtesan is happy!”
I declare, Adonis, Ares or Herakles
according to his face, or the Old Man of the Sea,
if his hair was pale silver. And
then, what disdain for the levity of youth!
“Ah!” said I, “if I had not to pay my
florist tomorrow and my goldsmith,
How I would like to say to you: I don’t want your
gold! I am your passionate servant!”
Then, when he had closed his arms once more
around my shoulders, I see a boatman from the port
pass like a divine image on the starry heavens
through my transparent eyelids.
112 – PURE WATER OF THE POND
“Pure water of the pond, immobile mirror, tell me
about my beauty. – Oh, Bilitis, or whoever you are,
Tethys perhaps or Amphitrite, you are beautiful,
“Your face inclines under your thick hair,
swollen with flowers and perfume.
Your soft eyelids open to pain and
your flanks are weary from the movements of
“Your body is tired from gravity and your breasts
carry the delicate marks of fingernails and the
blue bruises of love-making [baiser]. Your arms are
reddened by embraces. Each line of your
skin was made by love.
Clear water of the pond, your coolness is restful.
Receive me, who am tired indeed. Bring
the paint for my cheeks, and the sweat of my
belly and the memory of night.”
113 – THE NOCTURNAL FEAST (not translated)
114 – SENSUAL PLEASURE [VOLUPTE]
On a white terrace, the night
leaves us swooning among the roses. The
hot sweat cooled like tears from our
armpits across our breasts. An overwhelming
sensual pleasure turns our inverted heads purple.
Four captive doves, bathed in
four perfumes, flew over us
in silence. From their wings, droplets
of scent were sprinkled
over the naked women,
I was soaked in the essence of Irises.
Oh weariness! I was resting my cheek on the
belly of a young girl who enveloped herself
in the coolness of my humid hair. The scent
of her saffron-coloured skin intoxicated my open
mouth. She closed her thigh on my neck.
I slept, but an exhausting dream woke me:
[?l’iynx’] bird of nocturnal desires, was singing
madly from afar. I coughed with a shudder.
A languid arm, like a flower, rises
bit by bit towards the moon, in the air.
115 – THE HOSTELRY
Hostel-keeper, there are four of us. Give us
a bedroom with two beds. It is too late
now to go home to the town and the
rain has ruined the road.
Bring a basket of figs, some cheese
and some black wine; but first remove my sandals
and wash my feet, because the dirt tickles my feet.
You will carry into my bedroom two basins
of water, a full lamp, a krater
and some calices [?kylix’?]. You will shake out the covers
and beat the cushions.
See that the beds are of good maple and
that the planks are mute! Tomorrow
you will not wake us.
116 – DOMESTICITY
Four slaves keep my house: two
robust Thracians at my door, a Sicilian in
my kitchen and a docile and mute Phrygian
for the service of my bed.
The two Thracians are beautiful men.
They have sticks in their hands to chase away the
poor lovers and a hammer to nail
to the wall the crowns they send me.
The Sicilian is a rare cook; I paid
him a dozen minas. No-one else knows
how he prepares fried croquettes and
cakes and corn-poppies.
The Phrygian bathes me, does my coiffure and
plucks my hair. She sleeps in the morning in my bedroom
And for three nights, each month, she
takes my place beside my lovers.
117 – THE TRIUMPH OF BILITIS
The procession carried me in
triumph, me, Bilitis, completely naked on a
shell-shaped chariot [‘char en coquille’] where slaves, during
the night had stripped the petals [‘effeuilles’] from ten thousand roses.
I was lying down, my hands under my neck,
my feet alone were clothed in gold, and my
body softly stretched, on the bed some of
my warm hair tangles in fresh petals.
A dozen children, with their winged shoulders,
served me as a goddess; some holding
a parasol, the others soaking me with
perfumes, or burning incense at the prow [?proue’?]
And around me I heard noised the intense murmur
of the throng, while the breath of
desire floated over my nudity, in the
blue mist of the aromatics.
118 – TO HER BREASTS
Flowers in flesh, oh my breasts! How
rich and voluptuous you are! My breasts in my
hands, how soft you are with such
a mellow warmth and such young perfumes!
Of old, you were ice-cold like the chest
off a statue and hard as insensible
marble. Since you have given way I
cherish you no more, you who were loved.
Your shape, smooth and swollen is the honour of
my brown torso. Well and good that I imprison you
under a net of gold, well and good that I
deliver you completely naked, you precede me
with your splendour.
So be happy this night. If my fingers
Bring forth caresses, you alone will know
Until tomorrow morning; because this night,
Bilitis has paid Bilitis.
119 – FREEDOM (not translated)
120 – MYDZOURIS
Mydzouris, you dirty little thing, don’t cry.
you are my friend. If these women insult you
any more, It is me who will answer them. Come
into my arms, and dry your eyes.
Yes, I know that you are a horrible child
and that your mother taught you early to
prove your courage. But you are young
and that is why you cannot do anything which
is not charming.
The mouth of a girl of fifteen years stays
pure in spite of everything. The lips of a grey-haired
woman, even a virgin, are degraded; because
the only opprobrium is to grow old and we
are withered with wrinkles.
Mydzouris, I love your frank eyes, your
lewd and impudent name, your laughing voice and
your light body. Come to my house, you will
be my helper, and when we go out together,
the women will say, “Hello.”
121 – THE BATH
Child, guard the door well and don’t let in
the passers-by, because me and six girls
with beautiful arms are bathing secretly
in the warm water of the pond.
We only want to laugh and swim. Leave
the lovers in the street. We shall soak
our legs in the water and, sitting on the
marble rim, we shall play knucklebones.
We shall play with the ball. Don’t let
the lovers in; our hair is
too moist; our throats have goose-pimples [la chair de poule]
and the tips of our fingers are wrinkled.
Besides, they shall repent, the ones
who would surprise us naked! Bilitis isn’t
Athena, but she only shows herself during her own
hours and chastises too-ardent eyes.
122 – TO THE GOD OF THE WOODS
O Venerable Priapos, god of the woods which I
made to put my official seal in the marble of the rim of my
baths, it is not without reason, guardian of
orchards, that you watch over the courtesans here.
God, we have not bought you by
sacrificing our virginities to you. No-one can give you
what they no longer have, and the zealots [zelatrices] of Pallas
do not run the streets of Amathonte.
No. You would otherwise watch over the canopies [chevelures = ‘hairstyles’]
of the trees, over the well-watered flowers,
over the heavy and flavoursome fruit. That is
why we have chosen you.
Today, watch over our blonde heads, the
open poppies of our lips and the violets
of our eyes. Watch over the hard fruits of our
breasts and give us lovers who resemble yourself.
123 – THE RATTLESNAKE DANCER
[LA DANSEUSE AU CROTALES]
You attach to your light hands your resounding
rattlesnakes, Myrrhinidion my darling, and to
pained nakedness out of your dress, you stretch your
nervous limbs. How pretty you are, with your arms in the air,
your arched loins and your red breasts!
You begin: your feet posed one in front of
the other, hesitate, and slide softly.
Your body bends like a sash [un echarpe], you
caress your shivering skin, and voluptuousness
inundates your long, swooning eyes.
Suddenly, you clap your rattlesnakes! Draw yourself up
on your tip-toes [pieds dresses], shake your loins,
throw your legs about and let your hands full of
mischief [fracas] call all the desires in a troop
around your spinning body!
We applauded with great shouts; well and good as,
Smiling over your shoulder, you stir up a
Shuddering of your convulsive and muscular buttocks;
Well and good that you undulate nearly outstretched, to
The rhythm of your memories.
124 – THE FLUTE PLAYER
Melixo, with your clenched legs, your inclined body,
your arms in front, you slide your double
flute lightly between your lips, moistened with wine,
and you play over the couch where Teleas
embraces me still.
Aren’t I imprudent? I who hire
an equally young girl to distract my
laborious hours… I who show her thus
naked to the curious looks of my lovers, am
I not inconsiderate?
No, Melixo, little musician, you are an
honest friend. Yesterday you did not refuse
to exchange your flute for another when I
was despairing of accomplishing an amour full of
difficulties. But you are sure.
Because I know very well what you are thinking. You
are waiting for the end of this excessive night which
excites you cruelly in vain, and for the first light of
morning, when you will run down the street with your only
friend, Psyllos, towards your own battered little mattress.
125 — THE WARM GIRDLE
“You think that you don’t love me any more, Teleas, and
for a month you have spent your nights at the table,
as if the fruits, wines and honeys
could make you forget my mouth. You
think that you don’t love me any more, poor fool!”
Saying that, I undid my girdle and
rolled its moistness around his head.
It was quite warm still from the heat
of my belly; the perfume of my skin came out
of it’s fine threads.
He breathed deeply, with closed eyes,
then I felt that he would come back to me and I
even saw very clearly his desires reawaken
such that he could not hide them at all; but as a ruse,
I still resisted.
No, my friend. This evening, Lysippus owns me.
Farewell!” And I joined those who were escaping [‘j’ajoutai en m’enfuyant’]:
Of fruits and vegetables! The little garden of
Bilitis has only one fig, but it is good.”
126 – A HAPPY HUSBAND
I envy you, Agorakrites, having a wife
as zealous as yourself. She looks after the
stable herself, and in the morning, instead of making
love, she gives the beasts something to drink.
You rejoice. What of the others, you say, who
dream only of voluptuous bottoms, sitting up all
night and sleeping during the day, and demanding
in adultery a criminal satiety.
Yes; your wife works in the stable. They even
say that she has a thousand tendernesses for the
youngest of your donkeys. Ah! Ha! It is a beautiful
animal! It has a black tuft over its eyes.
They say that she plays between its hooves, under
its sweet grey belly… But those who
say that are slanderers. If your donkey
pleases her, Agorakrites, it is undoubtedly
because its looks remind her of yours.
127 – TO A WANDERER
The love of women is the most beautiful of
all those that mortals have tried, and you
should think thus, Kleon, if you had a truly
voluptuous soul; but you dream only of vanities.
You waste your nights cherishing the boys [?ephebes?]
who misjudge us. Look at them!
How ugly they are! Compare their round heads
with our immense hairstyles; search for
our white breasts on their chests.
Beside their narrow flanks, consider
our luxuriant hips, large beds hollowed
out for love. Finally, say which human lips,
apart from those which they would like to have,
elaborate the voluptuous.
You are ill, oh Kleon, but a woman
can cure you. Go to the house of young Satyra,
the daughter of my neighbour Gorgo. Her crupper [sa croupe]
is a rose in the sun, and she would not refuse you
the pleasure that she herself favours.
128 – THERAPY
Oh, Asklepios, be propitious for me, Oh god of
divine health, the day of eternal black night
menaces my withered eyes; because the
poison of my beauty, one day served as a
remedy. [lit: ‘… a servi de remede’?]
They sent word [mandee en costume] with me in costume into the bedroom
of a young man the women would have nothing to do with.
Bursting underwear [‘des calecons creves’] clung to my
thighs, and my breasts were flashing [jaillissaient] naked
from a brassiere of gold.
I danced according to the rite of the sound of the rattlesnakes, [crotales]
the twelve desires of Aphrodite. And here it was that
love entered into him suddenly, and on his
virginal bed I started the whole dance once more.
“You know how to make love yourself”, he said, “yet you
are not moved. What must I do to
make you love me?” I looked at him from
further away than his eyes and I told him, slowly:
“Imagine you are a woman.”
129 – THE COMMAND
“Old woman, listen to me. I’m giving a banquet in
three days. I need some entertainment.
You will rent me all your girls. How many
do you have and what can they do?”
“I have seven. Three dance the Kordax
with the harp and the phallus. Nephele of the
smooth armpits will mimic the love of
doves between her rose-coloured breasts.
A singer in an embroidered peplos (?) will sing
songs from Rhodes, accompanied by
two fluteplayers[?’auletrides?] who will have garlands
of myrtle rolled at their brown legs.”
“That’s good. Have them freshly plucked,
washed and perfumed from head to
toe. Give them other games if they ask.
Go and give the orders. Farewell.”
130 – THE FACE OF PASIPHAE
In a debauch which two young people and some
courtesans were having at my house, where love
flowed like wine, Damalis, to celebrate
her name, danced ‘The Face of Pasiphae’
She had had made in Kition two masks
of a cow and a bull, for she and
Kharmantides. She wore terrible horns,
and a real tail in her leather pants [calecon de cuir]
The other women guided by me, holding
flowers and torches, we turned on
ourselves with shouts, and we caressed
Damalis with the tips of our dangling hair.
Their bellowing and our songs and the wild
dances lasted longer than the night. The
empty bedroom is still warm. I look at
my reddened hands and the [?’canthares’?] of Khios
where swam some roses. [‘… et les canthares de Khios ou nagent des roses.”?]
G’day, piglets all!
Some of you may have notice that this week’s episode of ‘Bilitis’ is a little overdue… I do apologise and will post it within the next coupla days… (my next episode of ‘Virgil’s Aeneid’ is also overdue on my own blog, as is the next ‘Bilitis’ ep…) It’s because I’ve been working on a new blues number called ‘Down to the Station’.
Some of you may also have noticed my conversation with Algae, in which I promised to post a new blues tune I’ve been working on… As it turned out, I thought that a link to just a tune is a bit boring, so I had a search of youtube to see if I could find some appropriate movie footage to go along with it…
Here’s the result, my dear piglets, may I present for the first time ever, the premier viewing of Astyages’ new movie, “The Great Train Race – Down to the Station”:
(Translated by Astyages)
65 – TENDERNESS
Softly enclose your arms, like a girdle,
around me. Oh touch, Oh touch my skin like this!
neither water nor the midday breeze are as
sweet as your hand.
Today, my darling, little sister, it is
your turn. Remember the tenderness
I taught you last night, and come near to me,
Who is wearily kneeling to you without speaking.
Your lips descend onto my lips. All
Your hair, undone, follows them, as an
Embrace follows a kiss. It slides over my
Left breast; hiding your eyes from me.
Give me your hand. It’s so warm!
Entwine it in mine, and don’t take it away.
Hands unite better than lips, and their
Passion is equal to nothing.
66 – GAMES
More than her all her balls or her doll, I am
for her a toy. All the parts of
my body she plays with like a child,
for long hours, without speaking.
She undid my hair and redid it according
to her whim, presently knotted under the chin
like a stuffed cushion, or twisted into
coils or plaited to the ends.
She looks with astonishment at the colour
of my eyelashes, the creases of my throat. Sometimes
she makes me get down on my knees to pose with my
hands on the sheets;
Then (and it is one of those days) she slides
her little head underneath and imitates the
trembling kid suckling at the belly
of its mother.
67 – EPISODE (not translated)
68 – PENUMBRA
Under the transparent woollen sheet we
slid, she and I. Even our heads
were snuggled down, and the lamp lit
the stuffing underneath us.
Thus I saw her darling body under a
mysterious light. We were nearer to
each other, and free, and intimate, and
naked. “In the same shirt,” she said.
We remained thus hooded to be even more
uncovered, and in the thin air of the
bed, the odours of two women grew, a stew
of two natural aromas.
Nothing of the world, not even the lamp, saw
us that night. Whether or not we made
love, she and I alone could say.
But the men will know nothing.
69 – THE SLEEPER
She sleeps with her undone hair, her hands
entwined behind her neck. Is she dreaming? Her
mouth is open; she breathes softly.
With something of the white swan’s grace, I wiped,
without waking her, the sweat from her arms, the
fever from her cheeks. Her closed eyelids
are two blue flowers.
Ever so softly I rise; I will have
to draw water, milk the cow and ask for
some fire from the neighbours. I want my hair curled,
and to be dressed when she opens her eyes.
Sleep, stay a while longer between her
beautifully-curved eyelashes and let her night continue
happily with a dream of good omen.
70 – THE KISS
I shall kiss the long black sails of your neck
from one end to the other , oh sweet bird,
captured dove, whose heart leaps under my hand.
I shall take her mouth in my mouth
as a child takes the breast of its mother.
Shudder! … Because the kiss penetrates
deeply, permissive to love.
I shall promenade my lips like fire on
your arms, and around your neck, and I shall make you
turn onto your ticklish side with the
dragging caress of my fingernails.
Listen to me whisper in your ear: all the rumours
of the sea… Mnasidika! Your look
teases me. I shall close your frail
and smokey eyelids with my kiss.
71 – THE PAINS OF JEALOUSY
You must not have your hair styled, for fear
a too-hot iron may burn your neck or your
hair. Leave it on your shoulders and
spreading along the length of your arm.
You must not get dressed, for fear
that a girdle might make sharp red
crease-marks on your hips.
Stay naked like a little girl.
You must not even get up, for fear
that your delicate feet may be hurt by
walking. You shall rest in bed, O victim
Of Eros, and I shall dress your poor sores.
It is because I don’t want to see on your body any other
Marks, Mnasidika, but the mark of a kiss held
Too long, the scratch of a slender nail,
Or the purpled band of my embrace.
72 – THE BEWILDERED CARESS
Love me, not with smiles, with flutes
or with cut flowers, but with your
heart and your tears, as I love you with my
breasts and with my groans.
When your breasts alternate with my breasts,
when I feel your life against my life, when
your knees stand erect behind me, then
my breathless mouth will not know even
how to find yours.
Train me as I train you! See, the
lamp is nearly dead, we are rolling in the
night; but I press your smoking body and I
hear your perpetual plea…
Moan! moan! moan! O woman! Eros
trains us in sadness. You shall suffer
less on this bed to bring a child into this
world than to lie in it with your love.
73 – REPRISE (not translated)
74 — THE HEART
Breathless, I took her hand and I
firmly pressed it under the moist skin of
my left breast. And I turned my head here
and there and I moved my lips without speaking.
My panic-stricken heart, abrupt and hard, was beating
and beating in my chest, like a bruised and
imprisoned satyr knocks, looking for a way out.
She said to me, “Your heart is hurting you…”
“Oh, Mnasidika,” I replied, the heart of
women is not there. This is a poor
bird, a dove who is beating her feeble
wings. The heart of a woman is more terrible.
“Similarly to a little bay of myrtle,
it burns with a red flame and under an
abundant sap. It is there where I feel
bitten by the voraciousness of Aphrodite.”
75 – WORDS IN THE NIGHT
We rest, with eyes closed; the silence
is great around our bed. Ineffable
nights of summer! But she, thinking
I was asleep, placed her warm hand on my arm.
She murmured, “Bilitis, are you sleeping?” My heart
beat faster, but without answering, I breathed
regularly like a sleeping woman in her
dreams. Then she began to speak:
“So that you will not hear me,” she said,
“Ah, how I love you!” And she repeated my name.
“Bilitis… Bilitis…” And she lightly touched me with
the tip of her trembling fingers:
“It is mine, this mouth! Mine alone!
Is there a more beautiful one in the world? Ah!
My happiness, my happiness! It is mine
This naked arm, this neck and this hair…”
76 – THE ABSENCE
She has left, she is far away, but I see
her, because everything is full of her in this bedroom,
everything is hers, and I am like the rest.
This bed is still warm where I let my mouth
stray, it is pressed down in the form of her body.
In this soft cushion slept her little head
enveloped in hair.
This basin is the one in which she washed; this
comb has penetrated the knots of her tangled
hair. These slippers held her naked
feet. These pockets of gauze contained her breasts.
But what I dare not even touch with my finger, is
this mirror where she saw her hot bruises, and where still lives
perhaps, the reflection of her moistened lips.
77 – LOVE
Alas, if I think of her, my throat dries up,
my head spins, my breasts harden and
hurt me, I shudder and I cry while walking.
If I see her, my heart stops, my hands
tremble, my feet slip, the redness
of a fire climbs to my cheeks, my temples throb painfully.
If I touch her, I become foolish, my arms
stiffen; my knees fail me. I fall
in front of her, and I lie there like a
woman about to die.
For all that she said to me I feel wounded.
Her love is a torture and the passers-by
hear my pleas… Alas! How
can I call her my Beloved?
78 – PURIFICATION
There you are! Get rid of your little bands, and your
fasteners and your tunic. Rid yourself of everything down to
your sandals, to the ribbons on your legs,
to the band at your breast.
Wash the black from your eyelashes, and the rouge from
your lips. Rub away the white from your shoulders
and straighten your hair with water.
Because I want to have you completely pure, so that you are
naked on the bed, at the feet of your fertile mother
and in front of your glorious father,
So chaste that my hand in your hand makes you
blush from head to toe and that one word from me
in your ear will distract your straying eyes.
79 – MNASIDIKA’S NURSEMAID
My little child, I have so few years
left with you, I love you, no, not
like a lover, but as if you had
come from my own painfully labouring entrails.
When I stretch out on my knees, your two
frail arms around me, your mouth straining,
you search my breast and my teats slowly slip
between your palpitating lips.
Then I dream of other times, I really suckled
that sensitive mouth, supple and
clean, the vase of purple-coloured myrrh
in which the happiness of Bilitis is mysteriously
Sleep. I will rock you with one hand on my
knee which gently rocks your cradle up and down. Sleep then.
I shall sing for you some sad little
songs which send the newborn to sleep…
80 – A WALK ALONG THE SEASHORE
As we were walking along the beach, without
speaking, and enveloped up to the chin
in our robes of sombre wool, some happy young
girls passed by.
“Ah! It is Bilitis and Mnasidika! See
the beautiful little squirrel that we caught:
it’s as soft as a bird and frightened as a rabbit.
“At Lydia’s house we will put it in a cage and we
will give it lots of milk with some
leaves of lettuce. It’s a female, she
will live a long time.”
And the fools ran on. For
us, without speaking we sat,
me on a rock, she on the sand, and we
watched the sea.
81 – THE OBJECT
“Hello, Bilitis, Mnasidika, hello.”
“Sit down. how is your husband?”
“Too good. Don’t tell
him you’ve seen me. He will kill me if he
knows I’m here.”
“Don’t be scared.”
“And that is your bedroom? And there is your
bed? Forgive me. I am curious.”
“You know however, Myrrhine’s bed.”
“Yes, a bit.”
“One would say pretty.”
“And lascivious, O my
dear! But we must be quiet.”
“What do you want of me?”
“What do you want to borrow?”
“I dare not name the object.”
“We don’t have any.”
“Mnasidika is a virgin.”
“Well, where can one buy it?”
“At the house of the shoemaker, Drakhon.”
“Tell me also: Who sold you your embroidery thread?
Mine was broken when I looked at it.”
“I made it myself, but Nais sells excellent thread.”
“At what price? Three obols.”
“That’s dear. And the object?”
82 – AN EVENING BY THE FIRE
Winter was hard, Mnasidika. Everything is cold
outside our bed. Get up, in the meantime, come
with me, because I have lit a big fire with
dead stumps and split wood.
We warm ourselves squatting on our heels, all
naked, our hair on our backs, and we drink milk
from the same cup and we eat millet cakes.
How loud and gay the flames are! Aren’t you too close?
Your skin is turning red.
Let me kiss everywhere the flame has burned.
In the midst of the burning firebrands I am going to heat
the iron and style your hair. With the dead coals
I shall write your name on the wall.
83 – PRAYERS
“What do you want?” said he. “If I must, I
would sell my last jewels for just one
attentive slave to watch for desire in your
eyes, the least thirst of your lips.
“If the milk of our goats seems insipid to you, I
will rent some for you, as for a child; a
wet-nurse with swollen breasts which each
morning you will milk.
“If our bed seems rough, I shall buy all
the soft cushions, all the silken
covers, all the sheets, furry with feathers from
the Amathusian merchants.
“All! But that must suffice, and if
we should sleep on the earth, the earth
must be softer to you than the warm bed
of a stranger.”
84 – THE EYES
Large eyes of Mnasidika, how
happy you make me when love darkens
your eyelids and animates you and you sink
under the tears;
But how foolish, when you
turn elsewhere, distracted by a woman
passing by, or by a memory which is not
Then my cheeks become hollow, my hands
tremble and I suffer, it seems to me
all over; before you my life is gone.
Large eyes of Mnasidika, don’t stop
looking at me! Or I shall poke holes in you with my
needle and you will see nothing more
but terrible night.
85 – MAKE-UP
Everything, and my life, and the world, and men,
everything which is not her is nothing.
everything which is not her, I give to you,
Does she know how much work I put into
being beautiful in her eyes, with my hairstyle and with
my make-up, with my dresses and my perfumes.
I would spend as much time turning a millstone, I
would row the oars of a ship or I would dig the
earth, if it could keep this prize here.
But all done so that she never learns about it,
goddesses who live above us! The day
she knows that I love her she will look for
86 – THE SILENCE OF MNASIDIKA
She laughed all day long, and she was even
a little mocking of me.
She refused to obey me, in front of several foreign
When we had gone home, I pretended
I wasn’t speaking to her, and how she threw
Herself on my neck, saying: “You’re angry?”
I said to her,
“Ah! You are not how you were, you are not
still like you were that first day. I no longer
recognize you, Mnasidika.” She made no
But she put on all her jewels which she hadn’t
Worn for a long time, and the same
Yellow dress embroidered with blue as the day of
87 – SCENE
“Where were you?”
“At the flower-sellers’.
I bought some beautiful Irises. Here you are,
I brought them for you.”
“How long did it take you
to buy four flowers?”
“The merchant kept me back.”
“You have pale cheeks and your eyes are
“It’s fatigue from the road.”
“Your hair is moist and tangled.”
“It’s the heat and the wind
which have messed up my hair.”
“Someone has undone your girdle. I tied the
knot myself; looser than this one.”
“So loose that it came undone; a passing
slave re-did it for me.”
“There is something on your dress.”
“It’s the water which has fallen from the flowers.”
“Mnasidika, my little soul, your Irises are the most beautiful in all
“I know it well, I know it well.”
88 – WAITING
The sun has spent the whole night with the
dead since I’ve been waiting for you, sitting on my
bed, weary from my vigil. The wick of the lamp
has nearly burnt down to the end.
She hasn’t come home yet: here is the last
star. I know well that she won’t come home.
I know even the name which I hate. And meanwhile
I still wait.
Now she’s coming! Yes, she
comes, her hair undone and without roses,
her robe soiled, stained, rumpled, her tongue
dry and her eyelids black.
As soon as she opened the door, I said to her…
“But here she is… This is her dress which I’m touching,
her hands, her hair, her skin.”
I kiss a mouth, lost to me, and I cry.
89 – LONELINESS
For whom now shall I paint my lips?
For whom shall I polish my fingernails? For whom
Shall I perfume my hair?
For whom are my breasts powdered with rouge, if they
must no longer tempt her? For whom are my arms
washed with milk if they must no longer
How can I sleep? How
can I go to bed? This evening my hand,
in all my bed, did not find your warm hand.
I dare no longer return home, in the
bedroom, horribly empty. I dare no longer
open the door. I dare not even open my eyes.
90 – LETTER
It’s impossible, impossible. I beg
you on my knees, with tears, all the
tears that I have cried over this horrible
letter, do not abandon me like this.
Can you dream how horrible it is to lose you again
for the second time, after having
had the immense joy of hoping to win you back.
Ah! My love! Do you not feel how much I love you!
Listen to me. Consent to see me one
more time. Would you like, tomorrow, to lie
in the sun, in front of your door? Tomorrow or the next
day. I shall come to fetch you. Do not refuse me this.
This may be the last time perhaps, but just this one
more time, just this once more! I ask
you, I cry out to you, and dream that on your
answer depends the whole of the rest of my life.
91 – THE TENTATIVE ONE
You were jealous of us, Gyrinno, you
too-ardent girl. Such bouquets
you have suspended from the mantle of our door! You
were waiting for us in the passage and you followed us
in the street.
Now you are as you wished, held
in the beloved place, and with your head on the cushion
where floats another woman’s scent. You are
larger than she was. Your
different body astonishes me.
Look, I finally give in. Yes, it is
me. You can play with my breasts, caress
my hips, open my knees. My body
entirely I surrender to your
untiring lips, – Alas!
Ah! Gyrinno! With love my tears are also
overflowing! Wipe them away with your hair,
do not kiss them, my darling; and hold me even
Closer to master my trembling.
92 – EFFORT
Again! Enough of sighs and of reaching arms!
Begin again! Do you think then, that love
is a relaxation? Gyrinno, it is a
task, and of all tasks it is the toughest.
Wake up! You must not sleep.
What matters it, your blue eyelids and
the bar of sorrow which burns your
meagre legs. Astarte boils in my loins.
We were lying together before the twilight.
Here already is hurtful daybreak; but I
am not weary for so little. I shall not sleep
before the following evening.
I shall not sleep: you must not
Sleep. Oh! How bitter is the savour of
the morning! Gyrinno, appreciate that. Embraces
are more difficult… stranger and slower.
93 – MYRRHINE (not translated)
94 – TO GYRINNO
Don’t think I loved you. I ate
you like a ripe fig, I drank you
like a burning water, I wore you around
me like a girdle of skin.
I am amused by your body, because
you have short hair and pointy breasts
above a meagre body, and black nipples
like two little dates.
As one needs water and fruit, a
woman is also necessary, but already I no
longer know your name, you who have passed through my
arms like the shadow of another adored one.
Between your flesh and mine, a burning dream
possessed me. I shall press you onto me as
onto a wound and I shall cry: Mnasidika!
95 – THE FINAL ATTEMPT
“What do you want, old woman?”
“To console you.”
“It is lost sorrow.”
“Someone told me that since your
break-up, you would go from love to love
finding neither forgetfulness nor peace. I come to
“She is a young slave born in
Sardis. She has no equal in the world,
because she is at the same time man and woman, even
though her chest and her long hair and her clear
voice create the illusion.
“Her age? Sixteen years.”
“Tall. She didn’t know anyone here, apart from Psappha
who is lost in love and wanted me to buy her for twenty minas.
If you hire her, she is yours.”
And what could I do?
For twenty-two nights I have tried in vain
to escape into memory…
“Well and good, I shall take
this one again, but warn the poor
little thing, that she is not to be afraid at all if I
sob in her arms.”
96 – THE HEART-RENDING MEMORY
I remember… (at what time of day do
I not have her in front of my eyes?) I remember
the way she put up her hair
with her feeble fingers, so pale.
I remember a night she spent here,
her cheek lay on my breast, so gently, that
happiness woke me up, and the next day she
had on her face the little round mark of my nipple.
I saw her holding her cup of milk and looking
sideways at me with a smile. I saw
her, powdered and coiffed, opening her large
eyes in front of her mirror, and retouching with
her finger the rouge on her lips.
And above all, if my despair is a perpetual
torture, it is because I know, moment by
moment, how she fainted in the arms
of another, and that whatever she asked him
he gave her.
97 – THE WAX DOLL
Doll of wax, cherished toy that she called
her child, she left you too and she
forgot you like me, who made, with her, your
father or mother, I don’t know…
The pressure of her lips have faded
your little cheeks; and here is your broken
left hand which made her cry so much. This
little cyclas you are wearing is the one she
From listening to her, you already know how to read. So that
you were not deprived, and in the evening, inclined over
you, she would open her tunic and give you her
breast, “So that you will not cry”, she said.
Doll, if I wanted to see her again, I would give you
to Aphrodite, as the dearest of my gifts.
But I want to think that she is completely dead.
98 – FUNERAL SONG
Sing a funereal song, Mytilenian muses,
Sing! The earth is sombre as a mourning
robe and the yellow trees shiver like
a head shorn of hair.
Heraios! Oh, sad, sweet month! The leaves
fall gently like snow; the sun
is more penetrating in the opening forest
I hear nothing more but silence.
Here is what I wore to the tomb of Pittakos
burdened with years. Many are dead, that
I knew. And she who lives is for me
as if she were no more.
This one is the tenth autumn that I have seen
death on this plain. It is time too
that I disappear. Weep with me, Mytilenian
Muses, weep over my footsteps.