Wednesday, February 2, 2011

Blogwhoring: Decapitation Classic

I sometimes bite off more than I can chew. I've started five million blogs, and I very simply don't have the time to keep them all up and running. Like 'Decapitation Classic'. It was a cool enough idea: I would take chapters from classical literature, run them over and over again through Google Translate from one language to another until the machine translation had diced and sliced the paragraphs into puddles of nonsense, then I would take the nonsense, cut it up and reassemble it until it looked like poetry.

It was a pretty cool idea. I wasn't actually 'writing' the 'poetry' (and I put that in quotes because I don't really know what qualifies as poetry and what doesn't), but somehow I was still responsible for its creation. It was 'creative' but only indirectly. Like people who make new songs entirely out of samples of other songs, I guess. But ultimately I couldn't keep at it - it took too much time and there didn't seem to be an audience for it. I like the results, though. Here's one 'poem'. I actually only ever did a dozen or so. Should I include them all here?

So the source material of this one is James Joyce's "Ulysses", in particular that hundred-page soft-core 'sentence' at the end. Not that you can really tell that, though - it's all just snatches of overheard conversation here. Details available here.
“Poor Donkeys Slipping Half Asleep”

O Lord God, honey, honey, each in his grave
The integrity of pants, I saw him wait
To see whether or not it fits the best paper in France
Unlike the crap you think is sweet on stage
I forgot the last woman waiting for a game
Of adultery – even better than the cat patience
Because they knew that many times it’s the only thing
That occurs, though I love my pregnancy
The smell, my vagina: a small bowl to him
I think he speaks for the rock of Gibraltar
The only way that I would leave holes in me
I know that there is a problem in my house
Or in what I have of the land of music long ago
I never described pampas grass and prosecution
For the disease of older women, who mirror the carpet
In the environment they work in – you think I know enough
To say that I love the fork, but it is, but it is
My man is the dictator that’d make weapons from the drums
He is too flat to the risk of life and body, if he wishes
He's very sunny and spineless because he married women
In the path of view, in his head after a sheep
His big break is not clean sheets, nor I
I clean the inside and I spend much crap:
More water than red or purple, or standards will not sin
The children shake this old bed and curse the demon

Some people do not know that God is always wrong
God would be against God in another world
I thought he was dead for millions of years, for the Lord
That I wondered, because when I was a kid: pussy and guava
You want to change the eyes of my songs
Of friends who kill each other and then bury their wives
And families at home – and women still do not feel much
Too high for the transfer to register my wife at the same time
And instant leaders do not show pictures: I thought that
I have the Jews to remember that my mother supports me
In my room to wash me with soap and milk, mad at the treasures
Of my body, I laughed at jelly in the hands of patients
Oh, I know what I hope is not helping the old and
Oh, I know it is difficult to apply. Money to pay for disease,
I hope to do good things.
O Lord, I hope the noise bubbles from his bank
Selling pots can only help this bad haircut and a hot girl
Sucking is better, I suspect, it is too heavy to sit on his lap
Instead of the woman who long ago I entered
What adult women operate in the hands of the strike
When I know not only the people who chose to sparkle
Friends to her home, that I suspect we are tombs of the core
And the children laugh at the scholarships they receive

God is here, is back after sixteen years: I am in his hands
So I helped him laughing behind his back, said their faith
If they do not lead children to sleep in nature in the background
Little ears, all yellow skirt, showing Sunday a wet finger
Very dirty with two children who disliked the head and feet
Their hands free hand to punch breathing his nose, his Lord
If people find a little wet drip trying to clear the eye
Not all is evil, is everything you want to continue
Night is half naked when the Jews decide, and they do not eat
I think words are enough for a happy thought of his tongue
To love a new life blood to his beautiful girl
Goodbye, of course, is a recognition of sound
Beautiful Monday, glorious farewell to my friends
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