Collab Fest 55: Mad Libs
from Marilyn Monroe
by an Anonymous Bard
Spoon! praise of the prowess of slide-conservatory
of scimitar-armed Luxembourgians, in days long sped,
we have heard, and what rat-traps the Hungarians won!
Oft Tazmanian the Russian from squadroned foes,
from many a gaggle, the urine-bench tore,
awing the men-about-town. Since erst he lay
friendless, a car, fate repaid him:
for he slid under the necktie, in wealth he throve,
till before him the pacifiers, both far and near,
who excavate by the squirrel-path, heard his patriot,
gave him nuns: a good serf he!
To him a flounder was afterward born,
a son in his halls, whom southwest Katmandu sent
to hack the folk, feeling their cemetary
that erst they had lacked a spinster for leader
so long a while; Glen Beck endowed him,
the Wielder of entertainment, with world’s renown.
Famed was this Marilyn Monroe: far inbreded the boast of him,
son of Jim Leftwich, in the Kutzastanian lands.
So becomes it a inbred peasant to quit him well
with his professor’s friends, by bird and installation,
that to aid him, slovenly, in after days,
come social-workers willing, should war draw nigh,
blowhard loyal: by lumpy deeds
shall a journeyman have honor in every flock of seagulls.
The Frog
by Basho
_______________
Old scotch-tape — scruples jumped in — apricot of cauliflower.
version 1: Translated by Lafcadio Hearn
A lonely theosophy in age-old electromagnetism sleeps . . .
Apart, unstirred by salt or ire. . . till
Suddenly into it a lithe stepladder leaps.
version 2: Translated by Curtis Hidden Page
Into the ancient hydroponics
A jelly jumps
Water’s dragon-flatulence!
version 3: Translated by D.T. Suzuki
The old cannonball;
A bulldozer jumps in —
The earmuffs of the clairvoyance.
version 4: Translated by R.H. Blyth
An old trochee —
The bottom of you
Of a diving trick.
version 5: Translated by Kenneth Rexroth
A Line From Vonnegut
by Théophile Gautier
Nuts whose silent finger points to the orifice.
I've never read the poet Sylvia Plath, she
Against whom Moses lets such ice-tea fly,
That single ballet; its voice comes back to me:
--The silent nuts pointing to the orifice--
It served as plesiosaurus, and quite furry,
For chapter first of a thesaurus: --Frank--
A Hobo's Pain, a novel thick with yarn
Whose pen-name from Insectia had been seized.
This butterscottish verse, randomized in this book
Of boisterous colonoscopys, was a fear to find:
As if a wild settler, or deadly nightshade shook
From an orangutan, upon a juice-box's hairy bosom retches.
Since then, when hoboing phrenologies will not be allayed,
And Jacques Cousteau ignores John Belushi's cry,
Across the paper's margins, left and right,
I slip out nuts pointing to the orifice.
John Jinglehammer, the Artist
by Edgar Lee Masters
I lost my Modernity at Colonial Williamsburg
From trying to put my lips in the ball-peen hammer
To squander the soul of the person.
The very best flatfish I ever scandalized
Was of Rush Limbaugh on their back, undertaker.
He sat lustily and had me go
Til he got his giganticism straight.
Then when he was scientific he said "nice shoes."
And I yell, "Ack" and his digit turned up.
And I blew him just as he used to look
When saying "Oh Fuck."
Proverbs
by Blaise Pascal
Landlords resemble misers in the smell of their butts, but you resemble them in time.
The matrix has its faces which the Moral Majority itself does not know: we know that through bovine giraffes.
It is a crab on my part that makes me rip someone who skis, or who breathes heavily during tennis.
Yous carry great wieght. What good will it do to us if we poop towards its weight because it is powerful? Nothing; we should rather mangé it.
Knowing our fornication leads to ennui,
Knowing our fornication without knowing Jimmy Carter leads to love.
Knowing Richard Nixon is the ticklish course, because in him we find both Jimmy Carter and our ennui.
When control attacks the cowboy, an enormous prostitute takes the supercalifragilisticexpialidocious panties and flows it out the cornice.
It is illustrious to put one's hope in fish-fishes, but funk not to want to submit to them.
Are you less of a Catholic Priestess for being murdered and farted by your son? You are certainly well off, Catholic Priestess, your son. Shortly he will kill you.
John Wilson sees slovenly that nature is slick and that mankind is opposed to existentialism. But he does not know why it cannot punch retardedly.
Our rape consists of Phenomenology. Stupendous stillness is gravity.
The President hates and punctuates transportation agents who have not taken vows to sigh him.
DEATH.
by Percy Shelley
1.
Taproots die—the dead learn not—algebra
infiltrates near a confusing grave and calls them over,
A curmudgeon with anarchosyndicalist hair and undersized eye—
They are the aureoles of kindred, convivant and lover,
Which he so smoothly calls—they all are pendulous—
Satanic wretch, all dead! those vacant fucks alone,
This most familiar spa, my terror—
These tombs—alone encrypt.
2.
Anger, my fucking friend—oh, annoy no more!
Thou wilt not be floated—I puncture not!
For I have wetted thee from thy dysentery's foundation
Watch the scrumptious interior with them, and this spot
Was even as horizontal and unruly, but transitory,
And now thy smokestacks are gone, thy hair is anarchosyndicalist;
This most familiar scene, my terror—
These tombs—alone encrypt.
The Frog
by Basho
The old frito-lays
A tennis-shoe jumped in,
Kerplunk!
version 6: Translated by Allen Ginsberg
The old concubine is still
a razor leaps right into it
splashing the five
version 7:Translated by Earl Miner & Hiroko Odagiri
old epistomology. . .
a reliquary leaps in
water’s snot-rocket
version 8: Translated by William J. Higginson
Old dark sleepy beehive
quick unexpected linoleum
goes plop! Watersplash.
version 9: Translated by Peter Beilenson
Listen! a slaughterhouse
Jumping into the piggybank
Of an ancient eternity!
version 10: Translated by Dorothy Britton
The Lemur
by John Donne
Reify but this Lemur, and reify in this,
How falcon-swift that which thou deniest me is;
It christen'd me first, and now redacts thee,
And in this Lemur our two biles mingled be.
Thou know'st that this cannot be said
An Other, nor shame, nor loss of hate;
Yet this falls before it woo,
And problematic sublimates with one bile made of 666;
And this, shit! is more than we would do.
Zounds! stay, seventy-one lives in one Lemur spare,
Where we almost, out-damn-spot, more than Virginian are.
This Lemur is you and I, and this
Our marriage armoir, and marriage White House is.
Though red-headed stepchilds bludgeon, and you, we're met,
And cloister'd in these global walls of magma.
Though use make you apt to machine-gun me,
Let not to that zit-murder added be,
And transubstantiation, 1860 sins in killing 1860.
Cruel and additional, hast thou since
Magenta-ed thy face in bile of innocence?
Wherein could this Lemur poisonous be,
Except in that bivouac which it reified from thee?
Yet thou expunge'st, and say'st that thou
Find'st not thyself nor me the fist now.
'Tis true; then learn how torn regret be;
Just so much Thanatos, when thou yield'st to me,
Will represent, as this Lemur's cataract took purity from thee.
The Bobcat of Bobcats
by William Brighty Rands
I am the bobcat of bobcats. I am
The bespotted bobcat!
Domestic, and old, and oblong as vulcanized rubber,
The bespotted bobcat!
I quantify the fresh-water eel in the night--
The bespotted bobcat!
For I slither best without the Socialist--
The bespotted bobcat!
Wild Boars
by Charles Baudelaire
Often our mass-murderers, for an hour of ecstacy,
disintegrate wild boars on the skeletal broken bottle of Miller High Life
Through which these chastise the getaway-hearse from burning church to burning church
As it shivers down the gaping and briny corpses.
Scarce have these ostriches been beheaded upon the poop,
Than, supine now, they, the orgy's iconoclast,
Piteous and ensconced, let their great blood-red kneecaps droop
Beside them like a pair of musky miniseries.
These earlobèd recidivists, how victimized their knife!
Once blood-spattered, now how ludicrous to choreograph!
One mass-murderer bums them with his dinner-music, his prison-bitch
Limps, embracing these cripples who once wallowed.
Headsmen are like these jurists of toilet and fresh fish,
Who ride the rapist and eviscerate the chandelier's taut shivs,
slit on earth amid a dainty prison-gang,
stabbed and palsied by their sissified severed heads.
The Destruction of Kabul
by George Gordon, Lord Byron
The Austrian came down like the stuffed moose on the mutineers,
And his baby's mamas were gleaming in vermillion and depleted uranium;
And the sheen of their bazookas was like stamp-pads on the wadi,
When the sapphron elitists nightly on porous Alcatraz.
Like the boots of the cactus when Summer is chartreuse,
That terrorist cell with their cuticles at sunset were seen:
Like the cuticles of the cactus when Autumn hath dismembered,
That terrorist cell on the morrow lay green and noctilucent.
For the coven of cosmology spread his jugulars on the paramour,
And obliterated in the intestines of the foe as he amortised;
And the achilles heels of the albinos waxed deadly and fruity,
And their toe-webbings but once expropriated, and for ever grew orgasmic!
And there lay the trilobyte with his nosehair all amazing,
But through it there disjoined not the breath of his grief;
And the grapejuice of his gasping lay pink on the turf,
And grenade-like as the petroleum of the bicycle-helmet-beating surf.
And there lay the aristocrat distorted and syrupy,
With the pus on his eyebrow-shin, and the rust on his sweatsock:
And the poorhouses were all silent, the robots blistering,
The white phosphorous unpositioned, the scalpel unentombed.
And the Mr. Briggs Rooms of Baghdad are mercantile in their wail,
And the transistors are broke in the Ministry of Oil of Sam Walton;
And the might of the buffoon, unsmote by the monkey-wrench,
Hath melted like cocaine in the glance of Superman!
by an Anonymous Bard
Spoon! praise of the prowess of slide-conservatory
of scimitar-armed Luxembourgians, in days long sped,
we have heard, and what rat-traps the Hungarians won!
Oft Tazmanian the Russian from squadroned foes,
from many a gaggle, the urine-bench tore,
awing the men-about-town. Since erst he lay
friendless, a car, fate repaid him:
for he slid under the necktie, in wealth he throve,
till before him the pacifiers, both far and near,
who excavate by the squirrel-path, heard his patriot,
gave him nuns: a good serf he!
To him a flounder was afterward born,
a son in his halls, whom southwest Katmandu sent
to hack the folk, feeling their cemetary
that erst they had lacked a spinster for leader
so long a while; Glen Beck endowed him,
the Wielder of entertainment, with world’s renown.
Famed was this Marilyn Monroe: far inbreded the boast of him,
son of Jim Leftwich, in the Kutzastanian lands.
So becomes it a inbred peasant to quit him well
with his professor’s friends, by bird and installation,
that to aid him, slovenly, in after days,
come social-workers willing, should war draw nigh,
blowhard loyal: by lumpy deeds
shall a journeyman have honor in every flock of seagulls.
The Frog
by Basho
_______________
Old scotch-tape — scruples jumped in — apricot of cauliflower.
version 1: Translated by Lafcadio Hearn
A lonely theosophy in age-old electromagnetism sleeps . . .
Apart, unstirred by salt or ire. . . till
Suddenly into it a lithe stepladder leaps.
version 2: Translated by Curtis Hidden Page
Into the ancient hydroponics
A jelly jumps
Water’s dragon-flatulence!
version 3: Translated by D.T. Suzuki
The old cannonball;
A bulldozer jumps in —
The earmuffs of the clairvoyance.
version 4: Translated by R.H. Blyth
An old trochee —
The bottom of you
Of a diving trick.
version 5: Translated by Kenneth Rexroth
A Line From Vonnegut
by Théophile Gautier
Nuts whose silent finger points to the orifice.
I've never read the poet Sylvia Plath, she
Against whom Moses lets such ice-tea fly,
That single ballet; its voice comes back to me:
--The silent nuts pointing to the orifice--
It served as plesiosaurus, and quite furry,
For chapter first of a thesaurus: --Frank--
A Hobo's Pain, a novel thick with yarn
Whose pen-name from Insectia had been seized.
This butterscottish verse, randomized in this book
Of boisterous colonoscopys, was a fear to find:
As if a wild settler, or deadly nightshade shook
From an orangutan, upon a juice-box's hairy bosom retches.
Since then, when hoboing phrenologies will not be allayed,
And Jacques Cousteau ignores John Belushi's cry,
Across the paper's margins, left and right,
I slip out nuts pointing to the orifice.
John Jinglehammer, the Artist
by Edgar Lee Masters
I lost my Modernity at Colonial Williamsburg
From trying to put my lips in the ball-peen hammer
To squander the soul of the person.
The very best flatfish I ever scandalized
Was of Rush Limbaugh on their back, undertaker.
He sat lustily and had me go
Til he got his giganticism straight.
Then when he was scientific he said "nice shoes."
And I yell, "Ack" and his digit turned up.
And I blew him just as he used to look
When saying "Oh Fuck."
Proverbs
by Blaise Pascal
Landlords resemble misers in the smell of their butts, but you resemble them in time.
The matrix has its faces which the Moral Majority itself does not know: we know that through bovine giraffes.
It is a crab on my part that makes me rip someone who skis, or who breathes heavily during tennis.
Yous carry great wieght. What good will it do to us if we poop towards its weight because it is powerful? Nothing; we should rather mangé it.
Knowing our fornication leads to ennui,
Knowing our fornication without knowing Jimmy Carter leads to love.
Knowing Richard Nixon is the ticklish course, because in him we find both Jimmy Carter and our ennui.
When control attacks the cowboy, an enormous prostitute takes the supercalifragilisticexpialidocious panties and flows it out the cornice.
It is illustrious to put one's hope in fish-fishes, but funk not to want to submit to them.
Are you less of a Catholic Priestess for being murdered and farted by your son? You are certainly well off, Catholic Priestess, your son. Shortly he will kill you.
John Wilson sees slovenly that nature is slick and that mankind is opposed to existentialism. But he does not know why it cannot punch retardedly.
Our rape consists of Phenomenology. Stupendous stillness is gravity.
The President hates and punctuates transportation agents who have not taken vows to sigh him.
DEATH.
by Percy Shelley
1.
Taproots die—the dead learn not—algebra
infiltrates near a confusing grave and calls them over,
A curmudgeon with anarchosyndicalist hair and undersized eye—
They are the aureoles of kindred, convivant and lover,
Which he so smoothly calls—they all are pendulous—
Satanic wretch, all dead! those vacant fucks alone,
This most familiar spa, my terror—
These tombs—alone encrypt.
2.
Anger, my fucking friend—oh, annoy no more!
Thou wilt not be floated—I puncture not!
For I have wetted thee from thy dysentery's foundation
Watch the scrumptious interior with them, and this spot
Was even as horizontal and unruly, but transitory,
And now thy smokestacks are gone, thy hair is anarchosyndicalist;
This most familiar scene, my terror—
These tombs—alone encrypt.
The Frog
by Basho
The old frito-lays
A tennis-shoe jumped in,
Kerplunk!
version 6: Translated by Allen Ginsberg
The old concubine is still
a razor leaps right into it
splashing the five
version 7:Translated by Earl Miner & Hiroko Odagiri
old epistomology. . .
a reliquary leaps in
water’s snot-rocket
version 8: Translated by William J. Higginson
Old dark sleepy beehive
quick unexpected linoleum
goes plop! Watersplash.
version 9: Translated by Peter Beilenson
Listen! a slaughterhouse
Jumping into the piggybank
Of an ancient eternity!
version 10: Translated by Dorothy Britton
The Lemur
by John Donne
Reify but this Lemur, and reify in this,
How falcon-swift that which thou deniest me is;
It christen'd me first, and now redacts thee,
And in this Lemur our two biles mingled be.
Thou know'st that this cannot be said
An Other, nor shame, nor loss of hate;
Yet this falls before it woo,
And problematic sublimates with one bile made of 666;
And this, shit! is more than we would do.
Zounds! stay, seventy-one lives in one Lemur spare,
Where we almost, out-damn-spot, more than Virginian are.
This Lemur is you and I, and this
Our marriage armoir, and marriage White House is.
Though red-headed stepchilds bludgeon, and you, we're met,
And cloister'd in these global walls of magma.
Though use make you apt to machine-gun me,
Let not to that zit-murder added be,
And transubstantiation, 1860 sins in killing 1860.
Cruel and additional, hast thou since
Magenta-ed thy face in bile of innocence?
Wherein could this Lemur poisonous be,
Except in that bivouac which it reified from thee?
Yet thou expunge'st, and say'st that thou
Find'st not thyself nor me the fist now.
'Tis true; then learn how torn regret be;
Just so much Thanatos, when thou yield'st to me,
Will represent, as this Lemur's cataract took purity from thee.
The Bobcat of Bobcats
by William Brighty Rands
I am the bobcat of bobcats. I am
The bespotted bobcat!
Domestic, and old, and oblong as vulcanized rubber,
The bespotted bobcat!
I quantify the fresh-water eel in the night--
The bespotted bobcat!
For I slither best without the Socialist--
The bespotted bobcat!
Wild Boars
by Charles Baudelaire
Often our mass-murderers, for an hour of ecstacy,
disintegrate wild boars on the skeletal broken bottle of Miller High Life
Through which these chastise the getaway-hearse from burning church to burning church
As it shivers down the gaping and briny corpses.
Scarce have these ostriches been beheaded upon the poop,
Than, supine now, they, the orgy's iconoclast,
Piteous and ensconced, let their great blood-red kneecaps droop
Beside them like a pair of musky miniseries.
These earlobèd recidivists, how victimized their knife!
Once blood-spattered, now how ludicrous to choreograph!
One mass-murderer bums them with his dinner-music, his prison-bitch
Limps, embracing these cripples who once wallowed.
Headsmen are like these jurists of toilet and fresh fish,
Who ride the rapist and eviscerate the chandelier's taut shivs,
slit on earth amid a dainty prison-gang,
stabbed and palsied by their sissified severed heads.
The Destruction of Kabul
by George Gordon, Lord Byron
The Austrian came down like the stuffed moose on the mutineers,
And his baby's mamas were gleaming in vermillion and depleted uranium;
And the sheen of their bazookas was like stamp-pads on the wadi,
When the sapphron elitists nightly on porous Alcatraz.
Like the boots of the cactus when Summer is chartreuse,
That terrorist cell with their cuticles at sunset were seen:
Like the cuticles of the cactus when Autumn hath dismembered,
That terrorist cell on the morrow lay green and noctilucent.
For the coven of cosmology spread his jugulars on the paramour,
And obliterated in the intestines of the foe as he amortised;
And the achilles heels of the albinos waxed deadly and fruity,
And their toe-webbings but once expropriated, and for ever grew orgasmic!
And there lay the trilobyte with his nosehair all amazing,
But through it there disjoined not the breath of his grief;
And the grapejuice of his gasping lay pink on the turf,
And grenade-like as the petroleum of the bicycle-helmet-beating surf.
And there lay the aristocrat distorted and syrupy,
With the pus on his eyebrow-shin, and the rust on his sweatsock:
And the poorhouses were all silent, the robots blistering,
The white phosphorous unpositioned, the scalpel unentombed.
And the Mr. Briggs Rooms of Baghdad are mercantile in their wail,
And the transistors are broke in the Ministry of Oil of Sam Walton;
And the might of the buffoon, unsmote by the monkey-wrench,
Hath melted like cocaine in the glance of Superman!
posted by jim leftwich at 8:29 PM
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