Friday, June 1, 2007


. . .

A Walk in the Woods.
The Forest fills me with Life.
I step on an Ant.

. . .

You fit in my arms
like Brazil did Africa.
Continental drift.


This poem is boring.
It is plain as can be.
I did it on purpose.
It doesn’t even rhyme.
Each line has six syllables.
Except for that last one.

The Langley Zilla

This was a fun exercise. I took this Italian poem titled, "L'anguilla", and translated it purely by sound. That is, ignoring the meaning of the original Italian words, and re-writing them (loosely) phonetically in English. Here is the original poem...

L'anguilla, by Eugenio Montale

Original Italian

L'anguilla, la sirena,
dei mari freddi che lascia il Baltico
per giungere ai nostri mari,
ai nostri estuarî, ai fiumi
che risale in profondo, sotto la piena avversa,
di ramo in ramo e poi
di capello in capello, assottigliati,
sempre più addentro, sempre più nel cuore
del macigno, filtrando
tra gorielli di melma finché un giorno
una luce scoccata dai castagni
ne accende il guizzo in pozze d'acquamorta,
nei fossi che declinano
dai balzi d'Appennino alla Romagna;
l'anguilla, torcia, frusta,
freccia d'Amore in terra
che solo i nostri botri o i disseccati
ruscelli pirenaici riconducono
a paradisi di fecondazione;
l'anima verde che cerca
vita là dove solo
morde l'arsura e la desolazione,
la scintilla che dice
tutto comincia quando tutto pare
incarbonirsi, bronco seppellito;
l'iride breve, gemella
di quella che incastonano i tuoi cigli
e fai brillare intatta in mezzo ai figli
dell'uomo, immersi nel tuo fango, puoi tu
non crederla sorella?

Now here's what i came up with. Non-sensical, but interesting i think.

April 17, 2007

The Langley Zilla

Langley land, last years enema
deign my ‘ery friend ‘fraid die, lascerated by ill bald tics o’
rare grunge in ear, eye, nostril mouth-y
Aye, no street unwary I’m fuming.
Ray resolved all pro bono, thought taking pains to reverse it
directly ramified him in ramming ‘em and why?
The caped fellow encapers us shoddy gleemonatees:
Simply put, I’d dent him.
Simply put, he’ll cure our AIDS.
Stale mace filters
through gory alleys deep in smegma
sinching up… Gee you’re new:
Your aloof soul chatters, dying constantly,
nay; ascending. The guido imposes daiquiris, more, hey,
make it Fozzi’s check; decline
my palsy not dapping your man yo, not all romantical like in
the angled villa; contorted thrusting,
thrashing dumb or in terror,
chased along the O St. boundary, for he dissed a Gotti.
Russo is selling empirical niceties recovered through a condo conduit;
a paradox definitely condoning, only
the animated everyday chaser surely can
veto the grove so low.
More they lost sure of, his
last soul lazing open;
the chin-chilla said, So,
Tube-top convincing ya? kwan-do tilt-toed parade.
Dim carbon hear-say brought sap depletion.
He’ll read, bravo Jim, Helen
the Keller trained encased in ah, no, she’s too prickly.
She may breathed ere no data, in ‘er soul, aye feel it .
Deli sumo immense singing, sell two old fans. Go phooey to
not-pray. Dare the sore Allah?