Lay, Bald Con

My red days souvenirs – mattress days, mattresses!
Oh to I, to us, me’s pleasures! Oh, to I, to us me’s detours!
Do they repulse her as the beauty dares caresses.
Lad or seer, deaf or you’re it? Lay charm, desires,
Murder’s souvenirs – mattress days, mattresses!

The swears illuminate our ardor. Dutch, are bone-
less sewers. Oh bald con, violate the vapors’ roses
quitting. Sign me tainted ooze, quit – encore meet table.
News? Have on, see, dissolve, vent dim imperishable choices.
Lessons illume desperate ardor due charred bone.

Cue lace or lay, sons’ bones danceless, show this, swear away.
Cruel is space, its profound cruel coat is poison
in me pen. Chant verse to eye, rain these sad stories,
the crying is respired. Lap our fumes the tongue sang.
Clueless soul, ill sons’ bows, danceless shower soirées.

Land you its epees – said and seen you – one closed song.
Amy you dance, the no ear divining desperate hells
at the blue jays stun soufflé. Oh décor! Oh poison!
It tastes, be its adornment. Dismay man’s fat to nails.
I knew its passion, said it, and seek you – our clothes on.

Just sailor art devotees, lays, men, weeps, her roses.
(A rave is most passé – bloody dance craze, you know.)
Carry key, bone sashay, ten beauties’ languor, roses
all theirs. When touched her core, a queen touched course. See. Do.
They say the heart evokes less. Men weep her roses,

say sermons, say perfumes, say base air’s symphony –
Renaissance trills done giddy. Enter this a new Sunday.
Come mountain icicle lay soul, lay ray. June is
April’s center, the way of found days, mares. Profound days!
Oh sermons, oh perfumes, – obey sires infinite!

homophonic translation of Charles Baudelaire’s “Le balcon”

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

Seen, Sat I On

Peerless swears, blues ditty, gyrate dance lesson tears,
pick out a pair least blessed, fouler there. Be men, new
rivers, gun-sent. Terror laugh ray, cheer a misspied
jail, a seer’s eye leaving, banging matter anew.

Genie pearl, airy pass, genie pen’s airy reign:
Ma’s lamb, our infinite meme, entered a dance lame.
It gyrates low. Imbibe. In loin. Come, un-bohemian
pear lane tour heroes. Come have a cone for me.

Homophonic translation of Arthur Rimbaud’s “Sensation”


A school, Tammi?

I’m Poe’s Laura
seen mauve on many suns
taught to fray,
taught to leap giant eddies

Not me? You say.
It’s poor you with your caused causalities.

Try to get your oasis in a can,
drink down your teal purrs
and real pearls then think of me
as the moment least raided.

Care is here. It’s no one’s ugly heir
bossy, fussy, dove in and done in
a post-angry stare met or sleeked out
carted and crated and packaged to go.

Sometimes you can rig a sequel
with Spartan tuna angles.
You’ve all seen the view,
vied for much more foolish things
only to have them say “It’s so you.”

Oh, no. I’m a cyclone alone,
a lion in descent.
My only notes are in my cuffs and idle,
my cane emits tones
(“tra la la…”) with the glee
of raspberry-flavored vodka
in a spilt limousine.

Meg and Leo see their legs, azure and red ugly
Loose sails lie suspended gone on knowing.
In g-rated riots it’s not medals of silver they’re after
it’s the rope keys,
it’s the unlocking of the risen colt,
the talisman pending the charge of the ram.

I’m in a cinema, an aria,
a check to dear Simone.
I sense there is movement,
a side of the quest that you adore
It’s OK to be anonymous.
So stay, caress the dates,
raise them in an oven,
pet them, hear their tone,
adore them as an idol,
say their name in quiet acquiescence.

Don’t all idols divert passion?
An I for an I, a permanent clot languishing,
until raided, quit or unlocked with a key
an operation done in poverty,
where only the host is rich and easy
exists in between the doors, ready to be limned,
ready in the quest of silence,
in seeing you lay close
in the abandonment
and a semblance of a new scene
with no traitor’s ill lore of time or regrets,
no talons or signs of asps
petted, scorned, pried out of bags,
loaded into nature,
a pun often made more total,
a mandolin annealed once with chenille.

We’ve tied the Nile
read the files on Dad
and his brother liar,
Chief Final.

We meant to sea, meet an eel,
but we met the zodiac moon,
the very gallows guarded,
frugal with their tornadoes,
lame for ten decades
according to the disunity channels
where the taps are perfumed and keyed.

It’s the lake only you and I journey to
where we pile language
under the water.

I see a son on silence in a cause of silver
raise the only human horror,
cursing onto all
a quality of disturbed divinity.

Mail the illusions to the man
Say he sees viper trails as time’s poor cousin.
That it’s time for poor Nella
to finally sit her ass down –
she didn’t roar, she never rose, she just dove lazily
assured of her rosary most betrayed
by sultans and apes
zines written in high alto
signs on the trail.

It seems we may say we’ve been lapped
in paraplegia,
we stand canceled for later, ready, poised
off by only a ilk,
the doe’s eye and the ode delves inversely,
the hard end of a soft nuzzle
at a case of the true “la luce.”


Far favors have their air –
we see a mare in animation
the journey of the ill-closed door
ported back to the trees in the days
before the maelstrom.

On a short cot
she sees the most strange I
jailed under a sealed lid
dealing out a hand of limes to eagles,
loaded with the cure of satisfaction,
in petty oceans crossed by piano.

To the zone of all canned lore
let all Rome be a door
or a dell or a sole sorry story
that I will never tell.

A homophonic translation of a “I Limoni” by Eugenio Montale, intentionally ignored for several days, and then use as “found” source material in a manner that attempts to keep the underlying skeleton of the original homophonic translation and poem.

Catullus VIII

Miser Cat, you’ll lay on any desk
cause sin is in
in empires yet strode

here, two causes vie –
desperation versus perdition

“Fools are a quandary
with their biteable candy bicycles!”

Well, come vent it about.
Come cope with your ills.
Adduce bat-o-matons,
quantum gambits –
it’s about time
for your null lullaby

we’re down to
an ill mule versus an acorn

I accuse Phoebes and the younger Quay
of two volume-tastic trombone-bastic
neck pulls from a grassy knoll bat
(it flies eerier, but Very candid –
it tickles the souls)

A nun’s uncle I am
anonymous to voltage
too grotesque for import or export
forgetting seconds are necessary
I come with no lies, no neck
no place to tie ties

now we’re down to
Mister Stain v. said oddly

fully mended
he preferred to rob
the durable …

“I am Catullus, robed,
with a rat around my neck.
I’ll take my tea to go
in a pill box or
an underwater boat
that’s impossible to row.”

and next month we’ll have in stock
vital attitudes
dolls’ biscuits
some better regarded berries
less vain skulls
teak wood queries
but, for now
there is nothing
in the til
nothing in the abide,
abode, abyss

So is this your man Evita?
Kissed and dunked addled a bit.
Went Kablooey when he heard the vedic bells?
Asked for aqua – not vino –
and none came.
Not even a finger tip
or a finger dipped?

“No, I am a bit of biscuit –
the rest of us is easy.”

Dice, rice, rise.
Come back to the base with alibis
and cue the labels of morbidity.

Sit at attention cat
Your destiny is strong

a homophonic translation of a poem by Catullus, tweaked a bit…possibly 2-3 bits