After twenty years of mum moping about the palace,
Wringing her hands and complaining, I decided:
Enough is enough.
So I ran away
To see if I could find this guy, Odysseus,
Who everybody said was so amazing
And by bringing him back make my mother smile
Not the ghost of a smile that misted her lips
When I did something dad would have done,
But a real smile with an echo
The kind you could kiss.

In Pylos senile King Nestor, dribbling into his cups,
Told incredible stories about shape-shifters
And other metamorphic claptrap,
A hundred years of superstition wrapped up in a purple cloak,
Saying: “Your father is seven feet tall, boy,
With a neck like a bull’s and the mind of a fox,
God-like Odysseus.”
And as he dribbled my father became Achilles
And Ajax, every great hero of whom I’d ever read.
So I gave up the ghost, and left.

I was almost home when a beggar crawled up to me,
Crawled like a snake and snivelled my name:
And as I edged away, tripping over myself,
He shifted shape
Became a god, all shiny and ripped and there I am
Pissing myself on the side of the road when he says:
“Son? It’s me, I’ve come home at last.”
And the empty wind sang along
No longer a potential bearer of messages in a bottle but
Blown out
As Odysseus stood there on the sand,
Uncertainly extending his hand for a manly shake
And maybe a pat on the back.

I backed away from this hero, this god
Who didn’t yet dare embrace me
(Though he wasted no time with my mother,
Stealing back the bed and hogging the duvet
While she shivered against the headboard).
“What’s wrong,” he asked,
“Don’t you recognise your old dad?”

Who the fuck do you think you are?
I didn’t say,
Barging in here after twenty years
Like you’ve never even been away.
I didn’t tell him about all the other boys
Whose fathers went away, how we played on the sea-shore
Pretending to be our dads
On this single-parent island, Ithaka rich in sheep,
Black sheep
No chips off the old block, with attitude problems and
Daddy issues like you wouldn’t believe.

Or how I watched my mother flirt with a string of not-quite stepfathers
Who ingratiatingly patted my head
“He’s the image of you,” they said.
My mother laughing silently disagreed
Stood by her man, by the loom,
She wove a life for us from the same bare threads
The loom clacking like a stuck clock’s tick
Until Odysseus came back.

Until I said, “Sorry, what was that?”
And he grinned: “You kids, you’d think you had wax in your ears.”
Like he knew anything about it.
And I
Stuttered like I did when first he left
Along with the bed-wetting and the
And other therapist-friendly ‘abandonment issues’.
I told him about the suitors - how could I not? –
And Odysseus narrowed his fox eyes
Grimly he told me what we’d do to them
The crown-stealing, home-wrecking, mother-fucking
“Think of it as a father-son bonding exercise,” Odysseus said.
I did.

Back we crept across rocky Ithaka
Rich in sheep and broken homes
Until we reached the Hall where the suitors
Squabbled and gambled for my mother’s hand.
My mother.
And I took my bow and arrow and shot him
And him
And him him him
While Odysseus chuckled:
“That’s my boy”
As he lay about him with an axe
And mum unwove the threads for the last time
Until we were back where we started.
And we hung the maids on the clothesline to drip
Dry and later, when dad and mum had pulled the
Purple curtain close around them I took them down
And folded them away in cedar caskets
To be saved for special occasions,
When I could triumphantly unfold them and say
“Look, look what you made me do.”
think big

Ye Legende of Troie

because of all the hoo-ha, and because it's difficult to work out wtf everyone is complaining about if you haven't read the Iliad, I present to you:

Ye Legende of Troie

Withe a Caste of Thoufandes!!

Ytte is anne Evennt Notte to be Missd

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think big

(no subject)


esorlehcar, you were right. it is utterly brilliant omg. NEED MORE GIMME.

now must read author's entire back catalogue.

still, though: candace? *shudder* i figure the author's american, because there's this whole big english thing about names that americans don't seem to get.


we english still have a class system, whether you like it or not. it's purportedly much less rigid than previously, and to an extent i agree, but nonetheless it still exists. in 'ye olde days', names were very much a mark of social class. if you look at old records, you'll find that people in the trades, for example, would go through different trends in terms of naming than people from the nobility.

saying that, there have always been a stock set of names - usually of biblical origin - that don't signify anything much to do with social status. however, 'faddy' names are often a good guide to the class of the parents. the daily telegraph publishes two name lists every year. it's a broadsheet paper with a largely white, middle-class readership. the first name list contains the ten most popular boys' and girls' names across britain, the second contains the ten most popular etc as taken from the birth announcements column of the telegraph. there is a big difference.

any name made popular through a tv show, or a pop singer, or a footballer, generally has working-class connotations. sixteen or seventeen years ago, the number of baby girls named 'kylie' shot up from, like, 0 to about a million. i've known quite a few kylies (or variations thereon - kayleigh, keeley, pretty much any name beginning with a 'k' except for kirsty, which is scottish and therefore exempt) and they were all working class. this leads me on to my next point.

dom is middle-class. candace is a working-class name. furthermore, it's a stripper name, as someone else said. i really doubt that he would give his baby a STRIPPER NAME, you know. grr.

by the way, this is not an attack on the working classes, it's just an observation i've made. *paranoia*
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think big

because it is conducive to my education:

if spike lee had written the 'aeneid' or,
a blaxploitation guide to virgil.

aeneas: yo, dido, you is a hot piece of ass, woman.
dido: what you say, boy?!
aeneas: uh...nuttin'.
dido: hmm. hey, tell me what been happenin' wit' you.
aeneas: fo' sho', bitch. *spillz da beanz*
dido: damn, you a fine specimen of manhood!

interea (meanwhile)...

juno: i hate that guy, aeneas! i'm gonna whup his pussy ass!
venus: me too! i mean...i am?
storm: *flash bang fo' shizzle boom diggy*
dido & aeneas: ♥! *hump hump*


carthaginians: that is some fucked up shit goin' down there!
trojans: *laeti*
iarbas: this ain't fair! i want me a piece of that ass!
jupiter: AENEAS'?!
iarbas: fo' shizzle. i mean, no! dido's. help a brother?
jupiter: sho' thing, mutha fuckah.

and so...

mercury: yo, aeneas, get yo' pansy ass to italy now, ho!
aeneas: okay. right on, bredren, we goin' to italy.
trojans: *laeti*
rumour: hey, dido, your man been playin' yo' ass.
dido: what the..? yo, big A, you leavin' me, dog?
aeneas: uh...yah.
dido: you fuckin' pussy! what, i'm just a piece of ass to you?!
aeneas: uh...yah.
dido: i'm gonna fuck yo' shit up!!
aeneas: chill it, bitch.
dido: *froths at mouth*


aeneas: fuck this. let's bust outta here, yo.
trojans: *laeti*
dido: i hate you!!
aeneas: *flees*
dido: you gonna burn, boy! oh, wait - that's me.
anna: i'll help you!
dido: *kills self*
anna: my grief is disproportionate to my role in this. fo' shizzle.


dido: *dead*
trojans: *laeti*
iarbas: bummer.

the end. fo' sho'.
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