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”

On Permanent Vacation

these bays seen manta rays give rebates moist and base
done men in thunder under water, underused and under haste

did you pass the test?
did you get plus ten for your saviour’s grace?
did you get the extra credit?
did you draw the devil with your face
grimacing in unrest plus your armour caked in roe?

take it from the man in the iron mask
when you’re suffocating, the armour is your foe

jet in, rent rays, catch a plush cloud, cue the breeze
the last plane sailed out with the last mail bag
bound for our enemies

so quiz with your arms the gap above
play tap tap tap the tanks, bubble up a song of love

the ten ton heavy searcher lost the floating sun
can’t catch a breathe from his harpoon gun
can’t catch a break from his second son
distracted on acid and playing slalom with the buoys just for fun

Please God, we’re not asking for land, but merely for the surface
Mary Oliver, yes roses are quite beautiful, but when drowning for what purpose?

so write the last note on your whiteboard
read it out and let it rise
a bubble barely visible from the shore
too small to reach the skies

you know in the end we’ll all feel land burrow up our noses
sand in our mouths, stretched out in our dead man
didn’t float, he just sank to the bottom and slowly flayed apart, underwater poses

and shark incisors will find their way to rip the throat from failed heroes
on permanent vacation, the tanks all down to zeros

This poem actually started as a homophonic translation of “Baise m’encor'” by Louise Labé, and then morphed into it’s present form.

I’ve still yet to do a homophonic translation – a straight sound-for-word poem – that I really like as is the first time through. But I’ll get there yet.


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 XII

Marry you?
An assassin
seen as sin?

I’m already in use on this train,
as a bell on a uterus
somewhere in a queue of gray coats.

Vino’s toll
is a lint tea negligee
torn to pieces by hawks,

and we are but fugitives
making one long soft moan for an old vice
we could never outgroan.

This is no forum
for all the summer suns misused
as scepters and made inept.

This is where order dares
put the hoarder to the test –
name eight inventions of the used up West.

There’s no Nicean creed here.
So smile high.
The sea is ready.
The pole is off by only a hemisphere.

Our veils of talent
are ohms used and tired.
They’ve long lit the East
where the leopard rum room’s been wired
all along.

So when the judge asks
plead the rumor of pale pedals
and roamed dampers
the rued prom
the rude romp
the mode purer
then give it a stomp
as Mars is lead, as the ram is red
as time pie cooks slowly, yet always is prompt.

Add me at a low purr.
Add me rolled as Mr. Up.
Add me to the lore of lops,
a drum played low
and an old tune –

It’s different for us –
pure A/C faces under tiaras.

I’ll be square with you.
We ought to have handy
window sills as a boost for translucent Oz.
We ought to be expectant of the spectator,
Aunt Minnie Lynne
in her Hummer,

You can quote me.

Nomo, Nemo, Nero,
sing them all back to me
as estimations
so I’ll remember how
I sold all there is
for a name, a soothing aria
a sooth-saying area
set in abeyance
ready for the obedience
of suspended exile
without hibernation
or experience.

Our munitions are miserable
and much less than fabulous.
They’re nothing more that raven droppings
on the floor under Edgar’s bust of Pallas.
In other words, we’ll all be slain
whether standing or sitting,
weather permitting.

You never ran to us.
You never heeded.
You never ceased heading out to a sea
you already saw bleeded.


So now would an Amen be due
for the necessariest you,
nearest Vera, our sometimes
neo-luminescent muse
of the back table hit fable?

This poem was written by first making a homophonic translation of a poem by Catullus, ignoring it for several days, and then treating the homophonic translation as “found” source material to be morphed in a manner that still retains the bare skeleton of the original translation.

Catullus VIII (no. 2)

M. Katt
You’ll do a desk in time
You’ll do an inept and lonely tire

You ate our videos
Pursued our pears
Did ’em their due

Cast it out full sear
one damn candid tidbit
ten souls come to vent in it –
a base known pure and empty by Aladdin

– An adduced bat aimed at a knob is quantum
So you say.

I’m a bit of your null set
I’ll be still inside that multitude

I’ll be ill inside a lime tutu
a tumid lute
or a dying tumult

come I owe you cozy fire
bands, banter
ways to ease the volleys past
vestal ploys and valley tops
valley spots and tally hops
slaves plied to salves plied to
Vail’s vale sly stop

all the vests are lo-ply
all vets fly loops on the sly

(nice pull
full, sure,
very candid)

It can be tied only by two souls.
Never one.
Never none.

See I am ill. A non volt.
Two croaks left – both unimportant.
An alignment, an ailment
A Valentine’s limo on blocks.

On the wooden deck of the quay
fudge insects, those necklace survivors,
stayed obstinately
for hours after the final “amen”

We ourselves, prefer to endure.
Vale, pale, pull.

I am Catullus.
My obdurate neck
requires Velcro
to close it right.

Invited in the AM at two
the rolling bus comes
to Rogue bearing null
tests of fate, benches made
of teak, then away, away, away

Be a man?
(Nasal veto)
Be the keys to the nuns tea?
(add a bit of curve,
deeper resolve)

– Chemical nuns are a biscuit excuse
– Excuse us?

He sees the dice rise
Sees chemically-based alibis
Seize you in labels lame, more mordant

Attitude cat, you’ll throw destiny at us
in an oblong door.

A homophonic translation of a poem by Catullus, with additional words and fugues added. Actually based on the same poem as yesterday.