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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
dont write under the influence
Dr. Asclepius called me;
he told me i'm bipolar
(i still say it's luxuria)
My prescription?
Fucking medicine.
Take two pills:
Doctor's Orders
(as if anyone actually
obeys those, anyway)
Take another pill.
One for each time
you looked at me,
then two more if
i had looked back.
i'll take one more for that time you
branded fake
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
name-keeper.
she remembers other lives:
fragments of myriad pasts
that might once have been her own.
they shift, like shards in a kaleidoscope;
catch the light
and s p l i n t e r a memory
into bright and broken chaos
of galaxies spun
from shivering mirages of worlds long-gone
and the glitter-glass symphony
of wind-chimes, gently stirred
by passing ghosts
wakened from unslumber
and dragged, blind and weary
cross time-worn trails, forever trapped
in a music-box waltz
to her wretched sigh[and someone else's elegy.]
and she's the girl watching, holding fast
by silken, poisoned threads
by a plea, a promise
to let go the silvered whisper
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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?