Decapitation Classic #3

So I think I'm just going to dump Decapitation Classic in toto onto this blog here. It's happier here, I daresay.

What am I talking about? Here's an entry that explains it. And here are two more of the, ahem, 'poems'.

“A City is Destroyed”

A city is destroyed in every part:
Pregnant women artists come here to appear angular
Serving naked in Paris, then adhere fully to the devil,
but only white is right, and streets bright as gold
Metal, charming and full of energy almost under the eyes
Of the summer sun, one or two of rest in the chair
Or consider a new eye color to judge the world
According to its feet with female characters in the knee
To avoid elimination from the Slider to work free.
Better yet, in lottery revenues and the fear of God
Some people say, "The secret devil here and abroad
Dusts the Bible before going past the door."
But for those brave people who sacrifice their pride,
It seems a shame, gold, silver and precious stones.

I have shoes that are Marie Antoinette,
And walk on hot stones and burning sun.
We would set about to shoot him, and I got very light
And magic, and jumping rope to reduce the occupation.
But often your mind, as well as the deck, is empty,
with the ceiling removed pink light can not skim through.
We care little for the church records: we had visited Paris
Where they discuss the cutting of the Saints
And women without the veil here in the clouds:
scores of women, most are young and happy, and patient.
All disappear from the window and fly to the site
Representative for the fire, His name seems to have escaped
With their deeds, the four pillars falling on horns,
And a pillar of stone in Egypt, and the twisted snake.

When we entered the door to pay for a night,
An angel seemed to play the guitar, and I'm sure
The dolls vary greatly; their device is more interesting items
In any system of celestial beings, the environment and land
Are well guarded, as are children under the trees before them.
what a wonderful victory here, and I can not understand.
If it was under the shirt, he was transferred by air to the right,
And her thin face wore the old meetings in the gates.
Three main colors hang in disputes over the environment,
Even the shadow of snow in Russia now only leads to the meat.
With arms spread and mouth open wide, all is great boredom.
the right mix to pull, mouth open when the clock started.
Fly girl, rich colors and dust, and the link with cabbage white.
including a really good horse, and a really good woman
who can give the child a fear of horses.

He turned around, without making any progress,
While fifty of the dolls were a window period.
As it will end up trying to understand Infinity,
I must admit that I got up quickly.
His example seemed to melt into the walls,
Setting the black river in his hands.
It was big and dark, and solved our problems seriously
In my eyes, I felt cold in my bones.
How many people smile for a day, eyes full of tears' colors?
Point your face from us, risk his hat in public,
Show a very sensitive issue behind her bald head.
He was very nice and love the country illegally
His name was written in blood without epitaph.
The candles are still hot in his grave.
"I want my ashes to rest on the bank of the Seine
At the heart of the French people that love you."

Details about 'A City is Destroyed' can be found here.

“The Death of Jesus”

Now, the death of Jesus: I and others should fight for God.
It's a miracle, but close our eyes and breathe: body parts down to the eye.
It was night, when teachers come to know from birth on our roads.
However, hate can not eat; he can not force them to try.
New forms allow any sun to know. I fear teachers. But do not fear me.
Stop God and use a voice. Ready to talk about wolves, because we have guns.
A series of falling glass we see around us. Other pipelines and dreams of profit.
Perhaps a depreciation, for the murder of snow is full of fear.
Weapons? No knife to kill a wolf howling in front of Rome.
Blood will dance with your fingers, follow your fingers deep down.
He and I are a large Bowie knife through security, through the mirror I think.
I do not understand men in the basket, creating a problem.
I cry because I see things have changed: I threw away the sun.
Flash has won the way they should; the left fingers were burned in the blood.
Smile and say, we witnessed the suffering of my heart.
Discomfort and pain with a smile. And a quiet, elegant gentleman died.

Details about 'The Death of Jesus' can be found here.

More Decapitation Classic

Sometimes I like to excerpt a thing or two from my other blogs here. Especially since most of them are collecting dust anyway. In this entry here I explain what the 'Decapitation Classic' blog is/was all about. So read that for background - and then here's a few other 'poems' from the meagre Decapitation Classic archives.

“Cowards Called Conscience”

Monday's death of dreams and sleep -
Life is a disaster. It is too long.
In contrast, the goal is: You die, okay?
Victims are proud to ignore the criticism.

We are living in the coil.
I think we know another person?
However, after the death, fear of something:
Natural pain and shock.

Naked punch?
I love the pain and contempt.
Sweat away from your life exhausted,
Contempt for the whip and time.

The last word: more sleep.
This is the meat from the back end.
We are all cowards called conscience;
Please remember all my sins. 

Details about 'Cowards Called Conscience' can be found here.

“Raven as Written”

He is before the house, and the wood
has been on the table.
One is lying, sitting between them,
and all are easy to use.

Three were crammed into many of the rooms:
"Some wine," she said, "strong voice."
I felt all the traffic, but I have nothing.
"I do not drink," I said.

While I was looking for a great curiosity,
this was his first appearance.
I opened my eyes to hear his hat:
This is the same, you know.

When breathing sleeps, it seems to speak:
Blues are green and watch.
If you were baptized and see him again,
to make bread, this is a knife.

The parties must be silent in time.
The writing, the money, no more.
The answer is that you think you cannot
shake frequently, and live in the ears.

"No, leave it. This is the answer?"
"I am, especially in this relationship."
"I do not." 

Details about 'Raven as Written' can be found here.

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