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Literature Text
Put some original text here
and then a body underneath. Put down
that ants have gotten into the body,
that the roses are red as humble ants storming for a kiss
and the little legs of rain itself shall slumber
light underneath each horse,
each door, the dress, the grave.
This is my sad sharp lettering, my downpour
in the making – the mind brings the grave,
sweet violets soup the beloved's bed,
and we are motionless; we are
stopped with sense; we are bodies
within voices, the memory of glass.
Dress some original text here. Put out a love
to beat upon her door with its awful lettering,
a kiss to horse upon memory
lying there in the dry recess underneath my voice,
a storm vibrating to the last of a terra-cotta dress
in the rain. Put the downpour to mind.
We are heaped for the storm.
The rain drums down like an awful text.
The senses cry out as they quicken –
put some original text here:
She wore a minute more, though
the rose was dead. She wore
a terra-cotta dress and the rain,
so willing. She wore the window like a kiss.
Put that the bouncing downpour has ceased
its beating upon my slumber –
the horse has stopped as I wore.
The rain has out-lasted the text.
and then a body underneath. Put down
that ants have gotten into the body,
that the roses are red as humble ants storming for a kiss
and the little legs of rain itself shall slumber
light underneath each horse,
each door, the dress, the grave.
This is my sad sharp lettering, my downpour
in the making – the mind brings the grave,
sweet violets soup the beloved's bed,
and we are motionless; we are
stopped with sense; we are bodies
within voices, the memory of glass.
Dress some original text here. Put out a love
to beat upon her door with its awful lettering,
a kiss to horse upon memory
lying there in the dry recess underneath my voice,
a storm vibrating to the last of a terra-cotta dress
in the rain. Put the downpour to mind.
We are heaped for the storm.
The rain drums down like an awful text.
The senses cry out as they quicken –
put some original text here:
She wore a minute more, though
the rose was dead. She wore
a terra-cotta dress and the rain,
so willing. She wore the window like a kiss.
Put that the bouncing downpour has ceased
its beating upon my slumber –
the horse has stopped as I wore.
The rain has out-lasted the text.
Literature
nothing is original anymore.
this is the third saturday i've spent clicking Ctrl+A+Delete and ripping out pages of my sketchbook.
so:
forget the feeling of driving down an empty boulevard as the first snowflakes of the season drift down.
of etching halfhearted promises into your skin.
of 3:02 becoming 3:03,
Literature
letters
You said, write me a letter sometime, and I smiled and nodded like it just made my top ten list of things to do today. I was lying because I knew if I ever wrote you a letter it would be uncertain stains all over the page and crumpled corners and scribbles in the very center of the paper that read
Please
Fix
Me.
I got out my calligraphy pens that night, but could find no words except those running under my skin, catching in my capillaries sickle-style. My vocabulary was hiding in my ventricles, trapped in caverns below my ribs. I had nothing but lies to sing to you, and and my only truths are silently screaming attention-whore
Literature
overthinking is my daughter
I was lying in an empty bathtub when I sneezed and my whole body tingled. I was thinking about when we were walking on the sidewalk and you told me to stop walking and to just look into your eyes. you always told me the colour of my eyes hypnotized you. I was thinking about when I stepped out of the change room wearing a knee-length white dress and how you just stared and couldn't speak, and the twinkle in your eye suggested you wanted me to teach you how to breathe again. I was thinking about when you finally managed to say, "you look so beautiful." I was lying in an empty bathtub, thinking about change rooms and undressing. I was naked. I w
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The other day I was catching up on my backlog of Poem of the Day podcasts from poetryfoundation.org when I heard Peter Pereira read this piece called Fugue. Setting up his reading of it, he explained the process of its creation and how he used a tool called a Markov Text Generator to scramble the text of three poems by William Carlos Williams, thereby producing some raw material by which to begin his creative process.
I thought Hmmmm...for a minute or two, I wondered how much work the tool did and what was truly the work of the poet, and then I decided that I'd like to give it a try (with some skepticism over how creative this bit would be and the extent to which I could take any real credit for a piece tossed together by an online widget). I slapped in the text of three poems (which I'll put in my journal just for kicks), and what I got looked like this:
Within the horse had screened our forms before
Flew up and their little legs were only
with its awful lettering and warm
Then the pelting storm
Within the memory
Odours when the beloveds bed
And the glass that had screened our forms before
Flew up the cave
Music when thou art gone
Love itself shall slumber on snug and their little legs were only
The ants are in great pain
And so willing to her door
I think
Depression is boring I think
She wore a terra-cotta dress
And so humble so willing to be beat upon
The rain drums
Well, I don't build the rockets of tomorrow or grow the crops that feed the millions, but that's not a poem. So it must be that Pereira did quite a bit more with his effort than I first assumed. And so I started to cull and sift the results from the generator, to fiddle and to adjust, looking for patterns where I could, creating what seemed to fit. And, well, I don't know - is this a poem? Is it mine?
Do you want to try the Markov Text Generator for yourself? Do you want to try this one instead? Will you answer the call of the link?
5/5 I have switched to my alternative edit. I am capricious and get keyed up over such things.
Dave Prisk
I thought Hmmmm...for a minute or two, I wondered how much work the tool did and what was truly the work of the poet, and then I decided that I'd like to give it a try (with some skepticism over how creative this bit would be and the extent to which I could take any real credit for a piece tossed together by an online widget). I slapped in the text of three poems (which I'll put in my journal just for kicks), and what I got looked like this:
Within the horse had screened our forms before
Flew up and their little legs were only
with its awful lettering and warm
Then the pelting storm
Within the memory
Odours when the beloveds bed
And the glass that had screened our forms before
Flew up the cave
Music when thou art gone
Love itself shall slumber on snug and their little legs were only
The ants are in great pain
And so willing to her door
I think
Depression is boring I think
She wore a terra-cotta dress
And so humble so willing to be beat upon
The rain drums
Well, I don't build the rockets of tomorrow or grow the crops that feed the millions, but that's not a poem. So it must be that Pereira did quite a bit more with his effort than I first assumed. And so I started to cull and sift the results from the generator, to fiddle and to adjust, looking for patterns where I could, creating what seemed to fit. And, well, I don't know - is this a poem? Is it mine?
Do you want to try the Markov Text Generator for yourself? Do you want to try this one instead? Will you answer the call of the link?
5/5 I have switched to my alternative edit. I am capricious and get keyed up over such things.
Dave Prisk
© 2010 - 2024 b1gfan
Comments60
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Wow... cool poem
Also i noticed that you put the text into a link o3o how do you do that?
Also i noticed that you put the text into a link o3o how do you do that?