I Kept a Vigil at Your Cow (Translation of Ineptus, 2nd Century B.C.E Alexandrian Poet)

I kept a vigil
at your cow.

I thought you would
come back for it.

I kept calling out
your name.

But it wasn’t
your cow!

Thieves came
and murdered me.

They took the cow –
which I had grown quite fond of.

Now, I keep a vigil
at the spot where I fell,

waiting for you to come
and offer sacrifice to the Gods

and shed tears that will
water the seed of my soul,

release it into a flower
that will rise through the ash.

With my death
has come wisdom.

You are no longer in my memory as
“the bitch who ruined my life.”

I should have known
it wasn’t your cow,

but all cows look
the same to me –

me, a simple barber
from the North Side of Alexandria –

and I should have had
a better plan

to win back
your love

than keeping a vigil
at your cow.

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”

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”

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 –
STOP!

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,
remitted.

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.

See?

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
molebat
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.

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