A mouthswarm
of the indescribable,
the uncreated,
I could hear
I could hear
moth
but ripples and
radiancies
and mirror-like
sounds
created,
a heroin wind of sound
mainlined to the mind
reborn.
I could hear the angels of sound
swarm.
(cut-up: On the Road – Jack Kerouac)
~
Romero’s bullfighting
was ridiculous,
a faked look of purity
as if a beautiful feeling
was attainable in killing.
An emotional pass would
emphasize their closeness
and safe exposure,
him and bull
bull and him
Romero and horns
horns and Romero,
but it was bull
in the absolute killing.
(cut-up: The Sun Also Rises – Earnest Hemingway)
Dust
and
dust
and
dust
What’ll we do?
Oat beard
grass heads
and turtle,
tiddly-winks of
the same coin,
passive and
spun
Full of the Holy
in the grass,
here’s me preachin’
with eyes of dust
To profit the dust
some worshipped
mathematics
but God knows
what measured men
squatting in dust
Like jalopies
bustin’ with sawdust –
Christ, what they is
jus’ sold is
God Almighty
folks in ruins
(cut-up: The Grapes of Wrath – John Steinbeck)
(found mash-up with 1828 Webster’s Dictionary)
was never there
frankly,
a fragment
from Luke
as broken as damned
sentimentalities.
So starting all over
to give a care:
My dear, it’s
best to mend fragments,
glue them together
as new,
a clean slate
from Frank,
an adverb for
ingenuous repair.
(cut-up: Gone With the Wind – Margaret Mitchell)
Is the stated empathy of the caveat sincere or a ‘we care’ marketing ploy? Who knows, and I am doubtful.
I actually wholly support/want the cremation-only route, but think I have seen cheaper versions to this. And I kid you not (a sign?), as I was erasing this, the TV was on and a Pure Cremation advertisement played. The price – presumably entry-level, excusing the proverbial – was £1,500.
For a burn?
I Am Is
I must empty
am not emptied yet
I don’t know what I was
I don’t know if I
emptied am
I don’t know
I could not empty myself
Emptied then I
must be
or not
What are you
What are you
You never were
And so if I am
you are not
And is not
I am or not
Am or not
So is or not
I am is.
(cut-up: As I Lay Dying – William Faulkner)
With my thanks to International Times and Rupert. You can read the poem here.
One where
dark
fields
stretch
out
ceaselessly
into the unknown.
One where
obscurity
is beyond
tomorrow
year by
year.
One where
what recedes
is somewhere
back in what
we did not know.
One where
brooding wonder
is vast against
the future.
One where
the end is rolled under
what is already.
One where
it is already behind.
(cut-up: The Great Gatsby – F Scott Fitzgerald)
the writer
interested in figures
began to write
and a procession
of grotesques
crept out of
the writer
before his eyes
at least a small
dream
like a small grotesque
of figures
before his eyes
concerning his thoughts
some almost beautiful
the figures
crept out of the
old writer
once quite handsome
who had been in love
with a long procession
of life
he began to write
he had known people
many different from
the figures
not all horrible
some almost
he had known them
in his eyes
he imagined the eyes
of the writer
you see
the interest in figures
that went before
were the people in his mind
who for an hour
became grotesques
in his head
sleepy but still conscious
and when they passed
during his dream
that was not in the eyes of
the writer
they made his bed
when they passed
and made his bed
(cut-up: Winesburg, Ohio – Sherwood Anderson)
gravyfromthegazebo 