Dear Ves

[Vesnic]

Can't talk for long, but bravo Chubby!

I thought the following was pure genius:

"Tho keenly unawakened
Half baked faking of what makes taking your own life
Graceful instead of untasteful
Its a waste of what may still trace its way into space
And alien places"

It's all your usual themes, except redeemed by...

suntin' suntin.

I'm having an exceedingly dull day. This reminded me to check my pulse. It's still there, if faintly, so thank you saintly Chub-Chub, you old dastardly bastard.

[donteatpoop]

Way to go chubby, her pulse is still there. You know I like my pussy cold and decomposing.

[Vesnic]

Now I finally understand your motivation for that opaque statement you made awhile back about preferring "subdued, depressed Ves". You were hoping I'd...

You have sunk to a new nadir of evil, Poopyman. But just remember: MOMMY LOVES YOU!

Anyway, back onto my pulse and poetry. ChubChub, if you ever need someone to translate you work from Chubbish into English, will you please consider hiring me? I think translating poetry can be a dangerous task, since so much depends not only on meaning, but on form and subtext and cultural assumptions and so many other things that are difficult if not impossible to express in an entirely different language. PUSHKIN IS UNTRANSLATABLE! ...or so screamed a crazy professor of mine one day in class.

However, someone equally as crazy has just entrusted me with the review of poetry in translation, charging me with the daunting task of turning it this way and that, dissecting and parsing and whittling away until I reach its very essence and then...and then determining whether it shall LIVE OR DIE. And by that I mean whether it shall receive a National Translation Award or sink deep into the ignominy of academic anonymity. The choice is mine.

All mine! I am drunk with power!

I am drunk with joy!

Suddenly I have a reason to live!

You're really fucked now, Poop.