Homophonic translation of a passage from Roussel’s New Impressions of Africa
Shave limps impure, a suave or a lay, dentists.
Pour the pellet over me, this true voyage, our violence
poised for the scripture last, a mask insolent.
Poor moon protégé’s orbit, a reminder O lunatics,
doom casts her all climbing—the tempted O rides nettles.
Doom flow, the rivers superior to the point
discomfort drapes our rune of meter.
Celia don’t, fasten the vent, a quarter to recover
a crucible—the album of germs still foe for the mover.
Vain: a doomed fermenting; for each parasite,
pour a tear on the crouch almost seen.
“We so noble,” Ox thinks. The man slowed soon plays.
Lark ah met one soon broad, for sells you a duplicate.
Said clouds one June: “Flocks some.”