So I started translating some new poems into Infinite Monkeys, and one of them was I Love My Love, by Helen Adams (I Love My Love).
Something so hideously deranged spewed out that parts of it were not fit for print. Something about a nun resurrecting a sheep by suckling it at her teat. I might start a separate blog for that. At any rate, I didn't write it. It was purely an Infinite Monkeys production. There was really only one thing to call it.
There was a control
which abandoned a masochist.
Troubled as he inscribed her teleology.
The abandoning instrument
of her landscaped atom
she wasted with a set metastasis.
He excluded her rain through
his passion of smokes
where the saffron poppies played
She blasted as he burst her use.
the locking of depth
with her black religious condom
she resurrected with a tinkle of youth.
He covered her devil with his opium motions
She crushed, and stacked,
"I love my love."
Her voice like an open orifice.
Ha! Ha!
Her voice like newtonian goo.
No comments:
Post a Comment