'Nisbet’s unbuttoned translation is the inspiration for my Punk adaptation of Martial', writes Professor Wu. That adaptation follows, below.
Up to a certain point, it's recognisably our ancient original - that same Issa poem as last time. The rest, I reckon Martial would have secretly liked. I bet he hated that dog, deep down.
--
Who scraps harder than Catullus’s badass
Sparrow? Who’s purer than Milton’s impreg-
nating dove, hotter than the Flying
Scorpion, pole-riding Empress of Lap-
land, swankier than a faceful of
The wildest beluga caviar? Yes,
Issa, that darling lapdog of Publius.
She yelps with the acid tongue of silver-
Palated Demosthenes on the
Humiliations and ecstasies of
The canine condition. And when she needs
A piss, lovely Issa, the sheets remain spotless;
She raises her snout from her pillow, gazes
Deep in his eyes, scrapes his cheek with her
Crusty pawpads, and croons. What a bitch!
What a lady! What a gal! As modest,
Becoming, and virtuous as a nun,
The demure canine debutante tucks her tail
Round her privates, snarls at the sausage-hounds
And growls from the depths of her guts—faithful
Only to Publius.
Besotted,
He yearns never to lose her, so creates
Her hologram, her mnemonic, her specter,
Closer to Issa than Issa herself.
It wolfs down its supper, then passes gas,
It pants and it drools, it eats its own ass
And consumes his soul. Eyes only for it,
He casts off the real thing, locks her out of
The house, surrendering instead to her
Icon. It compels, it enchants, it leads
Him a dance, it fills him with bright shining
Light; it feasts on his liver, sucks his brains
From his nose, drains his white blood cells right out of
His toes.
Next day comes Carmen, his
Filippino factotum, who finds his corpse
Crumpled in on itself, a crispy husk
Of dried-out, brittle, inert human crackling,
While the mechanic image of Issa
Squats over him, snuffles, squitters and snorts.
It wolfs down its supper, then passes gas,
It pants and it drools, it eats its own ass.
