BIG POWER (a poem in lirumlarum)

Ruumiit tippuu katolt’ alas,
sukeltaen sukeltavat
ihan kuin miekkavalaat

Lapset katsoo telkkarii,
löytää netist ystävii
ja syövät sateenkaaria

Olen syvään uneksinut
maailman kataluudesta.
En tiedä viisastunko vai en,
ken tietää tuollaisen.

Savimaja hikipaja
rahaa tulee aiva sama
huorataan kaikki nyt.

Sama tuoksu uusi hinta
lattiassa sama pinta
ihminen on verilettu.

Olen syvään uneksinut
kauneudesta kauneudesta.
En tiedä viisastunko vai en,
suutu ei mun ruusunen.

Kauppasissi, fatalisti,
transsi, farssi,
klarinettimurha,
sikamies, mikä mies,
uusi lies’, tuhontie,
valkotakki, taskumatti,
krapula, satula,
maanantai, sunnuntai,
yö-työ sut syö,
olen pelkkä paimenkoira.

Olen syvään uneksinut,
vain sinusta.

 

This was originally written by me in Japanese, so I don’t give a damn if it’s only in Finnish. Use the tools given to you by our overlord. The translation it offers is exactly the way I want the world to read it. Go raibh maith agat!

August hides in a tinderbox somewhere,
because the girls of spring can’t be found,
so kindle your cinders
and kiss me goodnight, Lucinda!

July is a haven of unmistakable splendor,
I know all the pope’s ministers would agree,
so with your smile big and bright,
o kiss me goodnight, Lucinda!

June sways so gently in the arms of summer,
it’s golden like a fable when drunk on black label
and we danced to music, so soothing n’ amusing
now kiss me goodnight, Lucinda!

A year’s gone by maybe more this May,
the lips of the sun couldn’t compare to your stay,
there’s only one time when the flowers bloom right,
and now they’re somewhere with Lucinda!

All summers beget Lucinda!
All the world covets for Lucinda!
All my dreams are made of Lucinda!

A Poem of the Very Buoyant Russian Black Sea Fleet in Belbek

Tension at Belbek, the crisis of Crimea
There is talk of freedoms and sanctions
It’s all out there like a great big tidal wave
that is held together by a thin layer of glass
Reddit LIVE feed, Reuters –Bang bang
I turn my head to Google,
Death by Canadian Rye and images of Sandra Bullock,
Russian President Vladimir Putin is making a statement
Twelve hundred hours and thirty-five minute dregs
What is defiance? What is revolution?
And where is the change?
The Russian Black Sea Fleet floats around by Belbek
–Ukraine remains defiant

Cremation Phoenix

A dream of death cannot be seen before you die!

Listen to the truth in these roots of gospel sound,
The clogged minds rust under simian cries
Venereal disease flogging this Jesus carcass
Oh Christ is weeping through our olden times
The virtue of horror, terror, terror, horror

Sleepless and burned lay barren each idealistic lie.

Cremation phoenix, cremation phoenix
The smoke and ash all satisfy
with the evil so rampant we’re petrified,
I lock my doors with long lush hair
Oh Christ, Oh Christ
contracted disease that just ain’t there
flogging the Jesus carcass carcass carcass

I say, the Cremation phoenix is coming down
She’s here to take Christ out of our Jesus carcass,
hollering bail me out, bail me out of this hell Leviathan!

Sicko’it

I’m sick of this polka parisienne
that all trapped songbirds sing,
but why complain when the sounds
that I crave aren’t even audible,
how could I listen to words through metal bars
if I cannot stop and think in my time of living.

I watch film snippets with familiar faces,
they make me think of home, but something is missing
The motion lacks life, depraved of emotion
it lives, yet not within me, but in hopes.
I have lost the touch of that reality
and as the credits roll I suffer of a saudade
that I didn’t know that existed.

In the film,
I watch souls escape modernity into nearby forests,
they’re poets, artists, singers and songwriters,
It’s in the woods that they love where they feel at home,
whilst I like to fear death and breathe through concrete
–my home was built around looting and riots where the worst of humanity
sadly comes to light.

When I am with the world,
I listen –eyes closed–
There’s a gentle whisper in the breeze:
“Sick of it, sickovit, sicko’it.”

Numbers

Number One likes lonesome fun,
While Two sticks together like glue,
the way Three is mighty and free,
as Four is sure to be sour,
’cause number Five can’t wait to get high with
Six whose already waiting for a fix.

Seven is deadly,
the Eight has faith,
and Nine was fine until eaten by the Seven
–Ah, Ten is in heaven,
because he saw Seven hanging out with Eleven.

Twelve is myopic
and can’t see Thirteen,
while Fourteen had a broken spleen,
because Fifteen punched him nice n’ clean.

Sixteen couldn’t see the signs, he’s too carefree
While Seventeen was fighting crime downtown,
Eighteen wants safety,
and Nineteen thinks all this shit is asinine.

And Twenty, you don’t want to know about him,
for he has too much on his seedy mind.
He has too much on his seedy mind.