A lad says what shall warm a farm. A man says that a dark farce can attack, fatal farms. What shall a gal land? As glass spanks a bank, watch as small shards appall Mark’s hard farm hands. Mark can rank a man’s marks, cards and all. A bad lad has Mark’s war, an act that has a trap and a zap. Zaps can trap a lark, far awash a grad that wants a farm. That lad can fall apart, talk as darts, watch a blast. Wham! That man’s farm was dark. A fatal farm blasts that lad’s say apart, and Mark’s war pats a grad’s la-la-land. Damn.
Pygmy gym nymphs slyly spy my gym tryst. Why pry gym nymphs? Why ply thy gypsy scry myths? Fly by my wynd gym nymphs, fly by. Pygmy gym nymphs gyp. Pygmy gym nymphs pry my dry lymph cysts. Lynch pygmy gym nymphs! My tryst, my spry sylph, my shy lynx, why cry wryly? Synch thy sky rhythms, thy crypt hymns. Try!
This experiment was certainly a bit harder than I expected, though I still thought “I” was one of the easier vowels as we discussed in class. I tried to focus on unusual words (Imrigh is defined as a strong Scottish soup, who knew?), Ictic, and ibis (in the picture) in order to convey the strangeness of the text through words which also evoke unusual images.
It isn’t instinct, this trick. It’s ibis
sighting, trying, fitting, swimming!
Ictic! Imrigh! Insipid it isn’t, Icy in its
i.d. Idly I illicit ilk in its insidy
bits. Ill with minty imp,
pin in mind, singing,
wishing, fling ill
Eve bends the tree, ends Eden then gets sent where these men sneeze presently. Self centered, he never rejects the tempter, never repents, never redeems. The serpent revels, the men fell where the embers swelter, where the gentle breeze never enters. The eel the bee the elk the sheep the ferret the wren, they resent men, they reverse Eden, the secret serpent sect! Remember Eden, lewd men! Never let sleek trees, even Eve, tempt! Else be sent where the serpent dwells where the redeemless men never re-emerge.
‘Normeel’ menteel heelth
He knew the weey.
the weey into the feel, peel, reel
‘Normeel’ menteel heelth
The elder men reele beleeved he ‘knew’
He wees jest enetheer ‘leek of the week’….
En theet ees EET??
It isn’t inviting, limiting this in I’s. I sit, I think, is it fitting? “Knitting in bright lights is insipid!” I insist. Finding things with I’s is inhibiting. I find I’m wishing fish into swimming fits. Writing strings. I’m sighting sniffling pigs, flicking filth. I’m mimicking birds singing. I’m whistling with instinct. I’m miming living things. It fits within limits. This is skimpish lit.
This definitely proved to be a challenge.
Wrong words so forlorn or told too short for good sobs. Molls mistook for God plot to roost scorn from crooks. Wrong words go told from old crook Moms or Pops, to poll rock, hot crotch dolls. So forlorn. Gold world words shoot scorch sobs of doom from pop fools to smoky cosmos. Hoodoo. Bottom mojo blooms. Told only of crow sobs for two old moons. Boom. Wrong words mistook, so forlorn. Goof. God or dog. Mom or trollop. Worth?
I took it upon myself to work with y as my only vowel. And now I know why Bök didn’t add it to the book…
Why fly by dry hymns?
Shyly, pygmy pry rhythm.
Ympt syzygy slyly synchs sylphs.
Scry psychs my myths, nymphs, gypsy by hyp.
Ply crpyts wryly, spryly.
My peers were perplexed by the pervertedness. The strengths and strengthlessnesses est entrenched deep. The beefy legend beseeched feeling. The themes emerged – demented sex, lewdness. Encrypted were endless belle tweets, velvet cheeky verses. The messenger went sleepless, cheerless weekends, wrestling werds. He blended berserk energy. The end delved deep – dysentery emerged. He encysts the term – “belles pensées” est le sens.
Though I feel kinda weird posting this to a class blog, here is my attempt at a Bökian prurient debauch that is not so “fratty” sounding.
“Hi,” Isis sighs. It is midnight; Philip’s visit is illicit. Philip, flirting, tilts his chin, inviting Isis’s kiss. Livid with thirst, Isis bids Philip impish lips. Philip strips Isis’s nightshirt, wrinkling silk, his digits digging in Isis’s skin. Fiddling with Philip’s zip, Isis is imbibing his thick spit which drips. Isis is pinching Philip’s nips. Fighting ticklish misgivings, Philip is disinclining Isis’s clinch. Philip grips Isis’s thighs, kissing Isis’s midriff till his thirsting lips find Isis’s pink prism. First Isis is stiff, timid. Isis’s will wilts. Is it his skill which did it? Philip licks Isis’s clit whilst Isis twists with grinding hips. Indistinct lightning is tingling Isis within. Isis is finishing, writhing in thrill. Isis’s spirits lift, thinking “This is right.” Isis wrings Philip’s rising dick with firm wrists. Philip is jiggling Isis’s tidbits. His firming prick slips in Isis’s crib. Philip finds bliss within, lifting Isis’s hips. Isis whips Philip, wild with whim. Philip is whining, twitching. Philip spills his jizz. In dim lighting it isn’t vivid; Isis is missing his sprinkling.