“I was much further out than you thought/ and not waving but drowning” ~ Stevie Smith.

Start like this. Add [D-ball Blight/~ Mama told

me/~ come, son, ain’t the way to have fun/~ bawd

bones/~ son. Gangsta boogie?] To [Blue beard mold.

Blauh! jock cock Blauh! war raw Blauh! spinster’s rod

Blauh!/~ L’gangsta pussie?] Mix. [Ire in wack.

Pulsar north/ scar helm way/ home Holmes hell way

sugar bay] With [on your rock cock/~ slick sacque]

That’s how I wanted this to start. “To spray

[something?][a thing?] across your [thingy-thing?].”

Pathos?/~Bathos?/~ [whatever] such simplex

set of instructions. [ … … … … …] I’ll never get to

say what. Never say how now brown/~ [Stopping

you there, Herr Doktor Blight.] Mama’s next sex

swears [like this, Holmes] by the goat’s early rue.

][][

Notes.

One thing I’ve noticed about having tendinitis is that my mind spends a lot more time these days focused in on and trying to make sense of the endless static loop in my head. A translation process I won’t pretend to understand; what I get in return are endless fragments that not connected to anything, as if I was randomly switching through radio stations, white noise and all, which both gives and takes away. I tried highlighting all the different voices at work in this poem and the end result looks like: