꧁༺ Clarice + Oceans of Grass (a Cameron Winter translation)

Fun is actually real I’m not kidding this time I think fun is actually for real

I first listened to “Heavy Metal” and thought This man is a poet, this man is a poet, this man is doing things with words that make my jaw tingle, this is what poets do to words, this is what i like to do with words, this is so yes, so fun, let’s play.

Ok. So this is the song “Nina + Field of Cops” except i replaced all of Cameron Winter’s lyrics with my own words…..just for fun…..I’ll probably do a series but maybe not.

Also these are the song’s original lyrics. Could be cool to do a side-by-side comparison. That’s how I wrote what you’re about to read.

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Clarice + Oceans of Grass

Your boat is drenched with veins that rip off bandaids and beat the paddles
And slurp from puddles and ghosts keep ringing.
They all tug and tow you further and further
Before the waves swell their wakes while the water breaks a gutter.
You’re jealous of chests and silicone tongues.
The everything churns, the clouds forgot, and the boards are cracking.
My prints don’t look like they used to, but prints are lines that wobble,
Prints are swirls in the sea, prints stamp ink like you used to.

Oh, I swallow down everything, swallow blessed salt,
Bits of wood, scum from your ears,
Snail trains on the coral.
I keep all my ducks behind me,
I send them to write my letters,
I can’t go to every invitation,
Whole oceans of grass steep tea from my hand.

Clarice tastes your is, and she’s versed in the chorus of
How it feels to be a seagull, and she’s flown every globe with the urge to
Bite their eyes and braid interesting phrases into their minds
By the thinnest man’s ballad.
Clarice, I’m still calling, and still you smoked the sleeping cig
So now I’m always waking, and the first thing I see is
A sunken, rotting kayak thinning blood to cups of blue
While the water breaks a gutter.

Sea horses embrace, pulsing through atoms
Small enough to make a world and let the stars slip away.
Swim-walking to the sand, I’ll squeeze your thumb on all the banks,
You’ll squish the rocks between your toes and spit.
Two of the most supported women dancing on your knees,
I’ll taste whatever cuts me deepest in the gut.
I wanna wear my bed.

I’ve sewed the threads of all my selves together
Weave-walking on the palms of future,
Merging all the finish lines,
Swirling all the sprinkled pudding,
I tightrope into the newest island
Picking berries through telephones of hair
With my arms tied in a knot.

Oh, this blanked out party, you tease apart nails for the sewer-leaning
People man-holing through the vine, sopped to piss in the streets,
Wine in every keyhole toward the mouths of pinky-fingered lads
With grinning galls that catch teeth flying in their mitts.
The kindest eyesight yearning mug sits in stained-out beds,
Need the cash.

Clarice doesn’t want you, she has sons who’ve sprinkled salt on
The purest form of being, and she’s versed in the chorus of
How you crouch to be a bird, and she’s flown every globe with the urge to
Bite their eyes and braid interesting phrases into their minds
By the thinnest man’s ballad.
Clarice, I’m still calling, and still you bury golden desks
So now I’m always digging, and the first thing I see is
A mask to hide my bones
And a kneeling sword swallower is bursting at the wheel
While the water breaks a gutter.

These backward staircases, quadratics, and numbers
And wilting mutant corn, chop it all through the culture.
Plastic-leeching trophies knighted with grins are more poison than
Swallowing your scrolls asleep,
More poison than plastic-coated thumbs in your eyes,
More poison than any button pusher lacking pulse,
More poison than the poison.

Super fry the whole, let their kidneys fail,
Riddle me the question, live for landfills stuffed with straws.
Speedboats fueled with ears spin this asphalt and horizon deep.
Wet your sips into your deepest socks, and bury all your truest ways
To save your truest self.

Clarice tastes your is, and she’s versed in the chorus of
How it feels to be a seagull, and she’s flown every globe with the urge to
Bite their eyes and braid interesting phrases into their minds
By the thinnest man’s ballad.
Clarice, I’m still calling, and still you smoked the sleeping cig
So now I’m always waking, and the first thing I see is
The real and knocking ghosts thinning everything to cups of blue
Tossing water in the ocean.

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Yay.

Thank you to the guy and thank you for reading :) if u like this maybe you’ll like my book……!!!! Sticky Time.

YaY.