December 27, 2010

(hollokaos redux)

Filed under: Uncategorized — larspalm @ 11:51 pm

an unedited google translation of the last poem in the swedish chapbook

it is a space monster that is beats & heavy-footed rhythms on the railing? it is possible to confuse a pen filled with sudden energy, perhaps, a rose? in a pot we found in venice venice be refused & other cities dipped himself only polite. children running the streets bent in rain weight & draw patterns on the selected window. & There somewhere is the same old jungle, but with the newly rewritten legislation. first idea is not to sleep during these hot, almost bright, summer nights. the emperor’s court was at that time very high levels of creativity. someone who probably was not related to the royal court had kicked Manhattan every night & this tree-lined street is your min & & it’s late & the Moon fits easily into a coat pocket. you opened the door & it hit you by surprise when it started talking about it away streamlined village idiot. your words make me smile just as the German Shepherd jumps into the taxi in one corner of his mouth & nuts “follow it where the airplane.” a cyclist crashed into a fence, you were standing in the driveway, smiled & turned up your redundant slacks. butterflies may be offended by such claims. you dream that you travel through the water, wake up soaking wet & closes the window that had blown up during the night. five hours into the journey, you start to yearn to arrive in front of a large video screen where the bus switch times advertised & reserusig to stretch your stiff limbs. in the moonlight he approached the little log cabin thrown out, so it seemed, in quantity in the fields intersect. here we grow food instead of things like money or fame & we have our little off with short stories, a perennial variety, many are sketchy. a remarkable claim, but possibly true. we have not heard from him since he declared that he is working on a dissertation on the art of chaos & how it relates to fish, but he promises that there will be a text which is not similar. anyone remember the fight but the nostalgia of the gate. middle of April 1st wind clears the head & we strip down to the sun. certainly seemed so for them too, but neither side could claim to know what actually had happened. we had a corpse in a ditch, but I had not the faintest why. Thus, I went & had a beer, maybe I should think of anything & take his corpse pit & go. a cartoon cowboy who’s talking horse riding into the sunset. there were (are) always a new story of people trek westward across the gruesome fate of large (well, almost) provinces. songs sung in the head or in the vicinity & gulls living bastard. they would come back. the kid who called himself nice dig in the closet. here we are breaking stanza to get into

Air & Space. curiosity can do anyway, for it is not because of cats (where did they come from?), but the photosynthetic bacteria & active mainly at dusk or at night. all the more strange news selected for us. get us there, pronto, bums, on the cord, immediately, without delay, in the reddest stroke. The Supremes become better with age? keeps the valvaka again? a space monster rattles rhythmically away nearly sunrise, singing “I’m a poor lonesome spaceman”



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