“Transliterate mistranslations” of Arthur Rimbaud's Une Saison En Enfer
April 13, 2012
Apr 13, 2012
4 Min read time
ONE SASHAY IN JENNIFER
Jaded are my souvenirs, for they swell beyond the festivals where I tout them.
Um, soiled assassins are beautiful wearing the genocide they traveled to find me, but that’s love.
My arm is a contra for justice that injures the poor.
I mail sorcerers earfuls of misery, of hate—who value the confinement of my monocle!
You fashionable perverts fair well at the spirit crap because no wife is humane. I’ve dipped a stranger’s sores in my fat; they require brute force because I love them.
Not playing lacrosse indicates you must shine apples using Jesus or be forced to renounce the glorious suckle crime brings. Jesus sucked the crime from apples.
And the prime idiot resides on your tax form under sign here.
Or the deer will drive suave tractors and point and you will know their reach beyond any chef’s ability to fester your resplendent, pickled gums.
I am cleft of the charities that birthed me. Any whiff of rape inspires.
Your restored hyenas, etc..., they pivot like demons without ego, captain.
Ah! The trollop has a pencil. Conjure some attendance for my tiny itch, mister Satan, or I’ll quiz your beard. I am a civilian with paraplegic instructions yelling hard-ons back down, so sayeth this damn humble carny.
Heavy under famous gorges, you poison the soil to commandeer my arrival! — Let’s broil our entrails. Let the violence of Venus dupe my member toward regal deformities. Just shuffle my pus. Call hell our eternal puke. Voyage to be fat and bust our comments on demonic foam!
Have we saluted conversations never held with our Paris bound decrepitude? The air around Jennifer suffers hymns. My estate resembles millions of creatures suave in their continent. I’m a spiritual clam full of patterns and ambition.
Like noble ambulances!
An encore for the vile!—You think this damned homage is mutilated by damned crosses? Jennifer doesn’t. Jesus closed down her baptism. Parents, fat maulers of their own vortex, I’m partly innocent. — Jennifer pets antiques like a peon. Another vile encore! Plus, she’s a tard, delicious in her damnation, succulent in her profundity. What a vital crime that humanity situates our tombs so close.
Tattle tale, Mayan sheep dog!...Crest the humble, the reproachful icing: Satan gets me where least do, colors my braids like congress. Asshole!...Your every error is a magazine my eyelids grow....Organic. —Hello, my orifices entreat nations to quack. Being popular is scary.
I. Poxed Infernal
Encounter such confessions campaigned by Jennifer.
O poxed divan my senior refusals confess, plus the tryst of servants. Jesus’s parking spot. Jesus’s impure car. Quell well!
Pardon, divine sap, pardon. Ah! Pardon! What about worms! And where the fuck is my retard encore?
I swell, nonplussed in kennels. A pox on your peanut cadre overly maintained!
A present for your mucky food. I love not being aimed at. I am a Jamaican beast who tortures ramblers.
Ah! suffer my varied countenances and permits. Chug the mandible of my source.
An infant fissure cottons confidence. So quit summing up my lack with dude reporters. No way I’m insignificant or Australian!
Jesus got the clap from infernal celebrities, but they pardon his nerdiness. He was just this phantom tundra born to look bigger than he was.
He had verve, the good kind of beggar, oblique and debonair. Okay, let’s not be demonically correct.
II. Alchemy of Verbs
History is a flambé in my pocket.
I take the temperature of those who possess. I tour the wounds of desolate celebrities because I am one. My diseases are modern.
Jamaica looks punctured by idiots, dissed by décor and tailors, toilets without emblems, luminary populace, the literature of commodes, erotic dentistry. The Romans lied to their kids until everyone was small. An operatic vortex financed my rhythm.
Just reverse the crusade or don’t voyage, me and Republicans have a naughty relationship with everyone’s past, religions gown around us like a misplaced rattle.
The alphabet is racist. There is a rogue fertilizer within the A E I O U conspiracy. My instincts are snippets of a poetic movement long scissored.
There is flavor to my silence. Fix your vertigo and leak.
I TOURED WITH HANSON YOU PLUSH HICK
Quaint ills for Vienna, I spilled Vienna,
Tramps don’t eat asparagus.
Jaunty fainting patrolmen
Quill or suffer double joints
Cranberry and ogle
Auxiliary sauntering I
Party the soft malaise
Obscured by veins.
Quaint Vienna, wait Vienna,
Where my whores stash.
Tell the prairie
I’m without a liver.
My fame is a tour of itself, like farmers’ fame,
The son of prisons.
Attire your geishas in vinyl
And listen to their sippy sounds.
The calico manager quotes briskly,
The villains pillaging antique
Gales delusions value pain
Semiautomatic valleys of gristle.
The car died! — Man, paper regrets the writer who soils it, and I’m engaged to a divine cart in the middle of a season named hospital.
The automobile. Not a barking dense broom for the street, all immobile in the car-port, miserable for petrol, the city taunts with spaces. Ah! most pain feels hilarious to me. It’s that I’m finished being a woman. I have range of laughing pests! The river is how I train them. They look so gross I get sentimental...January is barely a month...Evict it from the fucking calendar! Exorcise the winter from your skeleton.
And rotund hives purse my comfort.
—Cantankerous plagues zoom through the branches of each nation, multicolored pavilions dirty my boy, the drama of it. I wrote an essay about the sun and called it please collapse.
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April 13, 2012
4 Min read time