Hannibal @ Rapallo
An original poem by George Elliott Clarke
I.
The day recommends Crime:
My glory is in her groans—
as she ceases to be a virgin
and accepts to be a trollop.
Her father’s ready tomb shows
a gratifying Grandeur,
suitable for an overthrown king
suffering the leaden pressure of dirt.
His wife, the sullied—and sanctified queen,
I’ve ridden quite raw in bed,
and, soon, I’ll splay her daughter alongside,
to watch us, lust, and be ridden in turn.
II.
Our leaping spears came into Rapallo—
rapacious as sun-bringing Apollo—
to rape and wound the chalk-face city,
bid the cringing monarch beg our Pity,
while trailing beautiful, glittering blood.
Anarchic, we uncapped wine and crapped mud,
roughed up the king, manhandled his
wife, discarded provincial virginities.
Like a wave, we Moors toppled down walls,
and, with helpless Gluttony and Lust unfalse,
breakfasted on smoke, supped on ruins.
We taught Rapallo Downfall lessons….
We scourged, we purged, we ploughed each lass—
like coltish hooves, bolting, ripping up grass.
III.
We have a distasteful view of Rome, anyway.
We want Romans to speak the fish language
of gasps, while we contract out bloodied earth
under a marijuana-marinated atmosphere.
[Guelph (Ontario) 24 avril / Nisan mmxv]