Thou shalt not Morgan - for Monica Yabal

Thou shalt not Morgan
- a word of advice about the world abroad

Sifting through surfers with syphilis sipping insipid substances
on Sidney’s supersandy surfaces – „shoosh“ says the sea
seeing monosyllabic surfers with syphilis sexing
sesquipedalian superstars of cellular searchery.

Sabre-toothed surfers with syphilis in their sartorially taylored sailor suits
seeking saints for some seditionary missionary –
seismically salivating their saline sewage, sickly son-of-a-guns
slobbering on soft-hearted sassy sanguine seductresses

Savage sausages with syphilis are like sawn-off shotguns says the say-so,
saboteurs of sensual salubriousness, symbolizing the submissive she-dom serfhood
to surfhood in systematic semisapient soap-operas – sucks for
soberminded and sanative sylphs simply seeking sun in the sand!

No, Mo!
No mo’!
Go, Mo!
No mo’!

Syncreting with syphilis is synonimous with soliciting saddle-sores,
solidified souvenirs of sultry sub rosian suffixal suitors,
soundtracks of surely sour grapes in the sordid southern hemisphere
submersed in the see-through seepage of stark-nakedness.

Sundials striking in stagnant staccato, stopping sterilized stigmas
when suppositories with syphilis suggest seven sestertiums
for superpositioning on said sylphs supinity,
severing their suspenders in sensual shaggification.

Shallow are the seas for synchronized swimming of
syncopated syphilitic semen from shapeless
shopsoiled sharpshooters surfing on their soundbytes
of soft soap, unsheathing their subhuman soul mates.

No, Mo!
No mo’!
Go, Mo!
No mo’!

Sophisticated sweeties in sweat-pants stunning sunning in
solar flares should snicker at snake charmers, snarling snide
and snearingly snap back, snub snow-ballingly: Snuggling with
snorkelers scantily clad is like scavenging for scabies.

Seismic sensationalist sceptres stiff and soaring;
succoured to scented succulence, swatting the sacrosanct
and surfing the seven seas on skinflicky skiffs,
these skulduggerous scruffy skitters of sick scrotums.

See, this smarmy smooth-spoken smorgasbord of orgasmic
surfer-smurfs with serums of seashore sensualisms,
seahorses of sacrilegious sickening salami-shafts
will salaam at the shreaking sound of syphilitic sextuplets.

Höpöhöpö Böks/ Bök's Höpöhöpö (literal translation)

Köld öld Böks mjög örg.
Ölböl örlög Böks!
Sök Böks kvöl öll kvöld.
Öll göt Gvöðs köld.

(Bök’s cold century is very angry.
Ale curse is Bök’s destiny.
bök’s guilt is his pain every night.
all of God’s holes are cold.)

Ör hönd Böks sökk,
gjör mörg lönd rök
hönd Böks sökk gröð,
Örg: "Ööööh... Bök!"

(Bök’s quick hand sank,
makes many lands moist,
Bök’s hand sank horny,
angry: “Uuuuuh… Bök!“)

Frönsk mön öll hözl Böks.
Rök mök gjör Bök börn.
Börn Böks ör, frökk:
Örn, Ösp, Björn, Björg.

(All of Bök’s lays are French women,
moist sex makes babies for Bök.
bök’s babies are quick, bold:
Örn, Ösp, Björn, Björg.)

Fökk Bök! Böks sök!
Sölt höf Böks röff
Brött fjöll kjörlönd Böks
Kjörfög Böks frökk stönt.

(Fuck Bök! It’s Bök’s fault!
Bök’s salty baths are rough.
Steep mountains are Bök’s preferred venue.
Bök’s chosen field is daring stunts.)

Mörbörn fjörstöð Böks:
Ösp gjör fönn; Björg gjör stönt;
Sönglög Björns öll böst;
Örn gjör öll lök rök.

(Grease-children are Bök’s fun-station:
Ösp makes snow; Björg does stunts;
Björn’s singing tunes are a bust;
Örn Makes all sheets moist.)

För Böks sönn, löng.
Böks höfn löt vör.
Þökk, Gvöð! Römm gjöf:
Gjör Böks tölt ört.

(Bök’s journey is true, long,
Bök’s harbour is lazy.
Thanks, God! A powerful gift:
Make Bök’s ride fast.)

Tölt Bök, tölt, för hröð.
Stökk Bök, stökk, gjör för
Böks fjörför, gjör tök Böks hörð;
flöt Böks jörð gjör stökkför töff.

(Ride Bök, ride, the journey is fast.
Jump Bök, jump, make the journey
of Bök a fun journey, make Bök’s grip hard;
Bök’s flat earth makes the jumping journey cool.)

Böks stöff: Rör, hörslör, gjörð;
Böks rör mjög, mjög löng;
Hörslör Böks gjör hörför;
Gjörð Böks, örlög Böks.

(Bök’s stuff: Pipes, a veil, a hoop;
Bök’s pipes are very, very long;
Bök’s veil makes veil-marks;
Bök’s hoop, the fate of Bök.)

Stök mjöðm Böks hölt,
öxl Böks hörð, tönn Böks skökk,
Böks sköp rök, gröð mök Böks
gjör Bök röff örlög; fökk röff örlög!

(Bök’s single hip is limp,
Bök’s shoulder hard, Bök’s tooth crooked,
Bök’s cunt is moist, the horny sex of Bök
makes destiny rough for Bök; fuck rough destiny!)

Kjöt Böks stökk!; löng stökk kjöts!,
Böks kjöt gjör Böks tögg mjög töff,
öl Böks gjör mön ör, stöff Böks gjör fjör.
Töff, töff, töff! Töff, töff, töff!

(Bök’s meat jump!; long jumps of meat,
Bök’s meat makes Bök’s toughness very cool,
Bök’s ale makes women quick, Bök’s stuff makes fun.
Cool, cool, cool! Cool, cool, cool!)


(In the summer of 2005 Christian Bök, the author of univocal lipogram Eunoia, was a guest at the Nýhil international poetry festival in Iceland, an event I organized. After some drinks one evening I leant over and said I thought it was really strange that he'd skipped his own Ö (incidentally CB was born "Christian Book" - but found the cross to heavy to bear, and changed his name) - and as the drinking got heavier my bravado grew, and eventually I promised that I would produce an Ö chapter for him. Eventually I did in Icelandic, did a rough translation, and they were printed together in a chapbook by Derek Beaulieu's No Press for Christians 40th birthday last year.

My reading of the poem can be found on my UBU-web page.

Christian's own reading of it (in Icelandic) can be found on Youtube.

The word Höpöhöpö (more commonly written höpö höpö) is finnish and means something between "bla bla bla" and "bullshit". Written in one word it's the longest word I know that only has ö's (although I have heard unsubstantiated rumours about it's synonym: höpölöpö)).

Leevi is a wild dolphin

Leevi is a wild young dolphin who began imitating his mother in many tasks at a very young age
Leevi is already searching people who are hiding in odd places and learning how to reveal the found person by barking
Leevi is a soccer player and he thoroughly enjoys the game
Leevi is almost 4 years old mellow boy but a little bit slow at his thoughts
Leevi is now ready for breeding
Leevi is situated at the 20th kilometre on võru – räpina road
Leevi is a lovely dog
Leevi is very playful
Leevi is 9 years old and he goes to oravasaari school
Leevi is proudly owned by kalervo lonkila from muuruvesi
Leevi is pictured above at 9 months
Leevi is studying to be a welder
Leevi is now qualified in the field
Leevi is beautiful
Leevi is the best
Leevi is active obedience dog

The poems protagonist is of course the finnish poet Leevi Lehto. The poem was generated with googlism. The picture was found by using this "revealing image" on Leevi's blog.

Writing poetry after Christian Bök is barbaric

so moch doponds
opon

o rod whool
borrow

glozod woth roon
wotor

bosodo tho whoto
chockons.


The poem is a reworking of William Carlos Williams' Red Wheelbarrow, written in a similar way as Lars Mikael Raattamaa's Pajkerno, though without knowledge of it and before it was published. Red Wheelbarrow can be read by clicking here - Pajkerno, and Leevi Lehto's translation of it can be read by clicking here - and finally Christian Bök's Eunoia, to whom the title refers to can be read here. The title replaces Auschwitz for Christian Bök, in Theodor Adorno's famous quote: "Writing poetry after Auschwitz is barbaric".

Teaming of what, Ned?

Teaming Erin, so what, Ned?
A vat, Ned, heir called a duped
insect, wit and means howls.

Oct-teaming her insect mend,
simmer meow love of what knee noon
hummer ‘til howls.

Oct-teaming of what, Ned?
Renal weightlessed tell third door
in eve whit and means howls.


Homophonic translation of the first verse of Time and the Water (Tíminn og vatnið), an Icelandic modernist classic by Steinn Steinarr. The original first verse can be read in the english wikipedia article about Steinn Steinarr, along with a traditional translation by Marshall Brement.

Moment

Tigers are cool
everybody says so
moral understanding
is not beer.
Beer is cool,
everybody says so.

Translated from Icelandic.
Originally appeared in Nihil Obstat.

MY BEST WORD

I woke up!

I am alone, I am sad ...
I explode.
I thought so.
I am evil.

I don’t understand.
I fall.
I fly.
I fly.
I fly higher.

I fly.
I don’t understand.

What am I?
That’s what I heard!!
Why me?

Am I anyone?

I am stuck.
Who am I?

I am afraid,
I cry.


Translated from Icelandic.
Original title: Besta orðið mitt
Published in Blandarabrandarar (Mixer jokes), Nýhil, 2005.

The poem is written by copy-pasting 1.000 pages worth of poetry from the Icelandic poetry-site ljod.is, and using Windows Word Auto-Summarize to make a 0,1% summary of the aforementioned 1.000 pages – that is to say, one page. The results were not tampered with. The title of the poem comes from a poem by Dagur Sigurðarson, an Icelandic poet.