Yorick's Arse Poetica
These times are anus-faced in Elsinore
my Arse Poetica has blown my mind
the Prince is dead my Muse a withered whore
foul winds of sadness follow me behind
I'm standing on the walls a lowly heart
the taster-keeper of dark evening wines
I muse away and launch a lonely fart
which glides off like a stork and then declines
my low vulvarity upset the court
– you use your penis for a pen – they laughed
self-censorship shall be my last resort
I'll have it like a condom on my shaft
and turn my verse into a tender rose
or into herbs of sweet exquisite scents
to tempt a fine aristo's dainty nose
to lakeside walks where scented sentiments
will send the man to take his lover's arm
a boy's or girl's – why bother to confirm –
until the partner giggles with alarm:
what's dribbling on me could it be your sp...ittle
these times are anus-faced I'm warning you
my Arse Poetica blows hard again
my laurels are not rotting but I do
my flesh is dying I am wrapped in pain
above me hangs the Damoclean blade
a rusty old Norwegian knife to wit
but I'll remain myself divinely made
I'll never mix up blood with bloody shit
Translated by Peter Zollman
From 'Selected Poems' by István Baka