Fragments of Hippolax
I’m cold. Hermes grant me some clean-groined
pants and some palm-warmed coins
pelt as in fur, not pelt as in throw
they hurt O Hermes the stones
the dead-grape wine, the fig too-sunned,
the floury plum and the wilted mint,
put them just outside the radius of Bupalus’ rope
that diarrhoeaing goat
One man prodded his mother’s half-burrowed
hare as she slept and was precipitately smote . . .
Surely Bupalus is likewise to hell.
Get off me woman you clamshell
hold my penniless brown-arsed pants
while I go for Hermes with my own two hands