Bald Spend Us

Oh, give it up. You’ve go no arm, my amiable anchovy.
And you dancer, just dance,
send less paladins, less May Day grey,
less squeals, less Saladins.

My sire’s “Bell’s the Ruth,” part of a tired pair lacking gravity,
suspended panting, snores’ grimace, cancer lethal.
It layers, clacks quaint out in front of reverse, do save it,
less fate. Row reason’s sons, the dune views know you.

Hateless, painting, choke in lace net lures, brass grails:
Come disgorge noir’s lisp, oh, it trains azure cues,
errant oats, repossesses its legend’s demoiselles.
See here tents long meant for dancing hide his armour.

Hurrah! Less gay dancers, twin halves plus the pants.
(Once started the Cabriolet’s less a treat.) Oh song, sea longs sea legs!
Hop! Grown one more neck, catch more sincerest battles of stardance
by the Belize booth, enraged, rankling the seas violins.

Odors, talons, your Mason’s on the news, bullets on the dial.
Press quiet toes, the sound for quit, tell a chemist’s ape all the rest,
then spit and spew the giant void, the itsy scandal sands, sureless cranes,
lane age applied, one blank chapter of a blank chapeau removed by buried hands,

liquor bow fate, panache, access, totem filets –
and more. Sewn in the thrown-in chair, tremble with the allure
of May grey mention. One dire turn – buoyant, danceless, somber melees,
desperate raids, hunters of charmed days in a carton of retention.

Hurrah! Ladies there’s a fly in the grand ball that squalor lets and begets!
Leg, I bet no arms you get. Come one ogre, day four,
less loops, minus respondents and desert forest violets:
It’s all horizon so let’s sail it down from rouge to mauve.

Hole, hold a second that’s been creased, as my captain has been ceased,
keyed defiantly. So your nose is dollars, gross digits, cases
unshackled. Out Damn pale vertebrae! You’ve seen it
passed on mouse-tier cityless trespasses.

Oh! Veil lake, oh, my lewd lady make a break
bandit dancing the seal rogue, one grand squeal faux
emperor parlay and come on. Chew on all the seats like a cabbie
who senses the encore, the raid, the elastic cordon.

Seize petit digits’ season. Femur’s key cracks,
have it descry parallels, ades re-canned, re-minted, resent.
Come one ballad, renter the trance, label these oddments,
make them all chance, labor your twin rebound, prance.

Oh gibbon with no arm, I’m the man who shot you amiably.
And you Dancer, dance, send less paladins,
less May Day grey, due double the squeals
left for testy Saladins.

a homophonic translation of Rimbaud’s “Dance of the Hanged Men,” shaken and stirred here and there

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  1. Steve Trimble

     /  April 7, 2011

    I don’t pretend to understand this, Tom Busillo, quiet genius, but it sure are pretty.

    one blank chapter of a blank chapeau removed by buried hands

    • A familiar face! Hello! Thanks Steve.

      I’m not an expert on homophonic translation by any means, but I think the general thrust of the technique is to take a poem in a foreign language and attempt to match its sounds sound-for-sound with English words (ah! I just caught myself in a case of English-bias…make that, “words in the language of your choice”) irregardless of their meaning.

      As I’m just starting out, I’m guilty of “cheating” a bit in that some of mine don’t seem to match sonically (I sometimes use just the letters – as opposed to the sounds – and stop in the middle of one word and continue into another) and I have this tendency to get the first draft and then start to say to myself, “hmmm….this would be a little better if I could only add this…and this…and a little of this…”

      …which I think violates “the rules”…

      …but the only rules that really matter for me come down to “is what you’re doing producing new work and poems you sort of like?”


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