If I could make the sound of tiny raindrops
Would you be a better audience
I could nail your ear to a rose
I suppose
And these swords I swallow are nice and clean
I wash them in kerosene
I could pull a stunt like that
Then I'd just lean, front or back
The Devil's outside he's dancing on his tongue
While the lamb is slowly bleeding
I'm a canary
In January
And mutton is mutton and that is flesh
So sew me an arm and a new haircut
Mutton is mutton and that is flesh
Nobody wants a new haircut
I'm the only barber in town
I nicked my scalp
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
You've caught the modernist spirit. Except the title. A true modernist would call it something profound - never admit it was Babel. Maybe Catfish. Or Twelve Nights on a Bend. A bit more seriously - but not much. I like the way you play with sounds. The only line that rings false to me is this one: Then I'd just lean, front or back It over-rhymes, or rhymes too soon, too insistently. And it chops. O/w great babble! !