cut up poetry – ian

(done by writing a dense paragraph that meant nothing and cutting it into four pieces, rearranging the four, and writing down the result, punctuation and line breaks added liberally to attempt to provide some kind of help towards meaning)

1
long days spent in the practice of nothing and everything
my words with no eyes for want
to look is when you don’t feel what you’re wanting

governments all given up and spent on uncounted endless arguments that
end too soon
they don’t feel the mild suggestions, eachother
or anyone in the long dull of grass

moved unchanged over any directionless progressions that cut lovely,
quite lovely, in everything

quit this that feels as if it isn’t,
without hands they should want on knees in front of the sun

on knees in front of the sun until the time comes to kill quick
beautiful as a washing machine alone-wars cast with indoctrinated boys.
hidden backroom visibly:
the words of their parent’s love

for these my only days
to realise or make realisations like:
they relate to what is called the cavernous footprints of history
the youth has given up
in place, god.
then sitting down and eating at the bodies of their predecessors

i’m not interested in what we call the great curtain

2
or the blame
i’m only interested in thoughts and the quickest possible little heads
and maybe in yours

sanity-no hands to want to feel a mind

walking on anymore when your feet are heads that reduce the rest
miles and flights that betray words before i or he get anything from
the wind

or hear the quiet comments grey(now hot days)
of our diagonal kind of ground barren or
inviting back on themselves and me

it should all please quiet little boys, or anyone’s getdown,
to fulfill all expectations into grass. that is, just as to refrain

in a field and dirty not in some time in our modern day
body countable homes, that isn’t what i want,
for girls to recite at eachother with bullets.

devote their hands to absurd children sitting with the men who
cover their eyes better than worms and pebbles, saying
“human capacity for love which most fingers(in the interest of self,
of cold clean detached indifference) cast the praise
stacked with unnerving precision”

3
the ignoble state of the youth
ears that float in latent wombs

decades of hardened stories from eager boys without opportunities
with indecent regularity
inverted and large
covering all i leave

some listening and asking through the lense of my eyes
i see the non youth and the older minded
(perceived separately are only to be firemen)
(to a certain age)
and then to be celebrated and joyous

when reality overcomes aspirations (so often sought and instilled)
to trust the records of time internalised(we all sit alone)
is to sing at the breeze with no one behind you

nonetheless some make records for interest purely in the warmth
of electricity between minds that can never know eachother

4
constant amongst our police minds shot into oblivion by
words over-dropped out of our mouths

the holy representative oneness that though impartial
be seen as all the projected image
hard questions about the youth
or backwords through the lense

dear aspiring policemen,
children prefer the unity of things.

the blackout of uncertainty
a mind whose polarization has grown too long and unstable

in the interest of human progress(folly beyond our hands)
(but in them) there’s no choice
the future that falls upon unborn faces
as perceived by isolate minds

“i like the fine things that wash up in the mind”

~ by engelberger on April 21, 2008.