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The World Pours

September 14, 2013

The world pours.

Swallows changed but nothing is pale
    in the mammoth sand upon a clock swallow.
It will flat in its whiplash hand corners
    and then to me; or else.

The dust earth of the root on its hill
    has cringe longer stickiness.
Summer, flies
    wounded the ocean.
The bones in the vice of the steel of inspection.

The owl roosting, collapsed a pig.
Convenience is her blue-dark glow.

Carp-like sophistry is going to hole
    like squabbles of oxen inaction
    tearing perfect crannies.
        A jab
    from the body: flings a jig.

    Bare-blown perfect tide-rip.
        With the swallow screech
    the sobbing depth
        slakes scissors at the top.
            The key feather:
                be idle.


Cut-up generated by The Text Mixing Desk by the Lazarus Corporation.

Input text is three poems by Ted Hughes:
Work and Play
The Warm and the Cold
Hawk Roosting


Cut-up output (before curation)

 pours swallow    changed but the
       and she
no is pale in the the mammoth sand upon the a clock swallow is no it will    flat in its

   and she whiplash hand corners. and then to me; or else the dust earth’s
       of the a root on its hill

       has cringe longer stickiness wounded the
 summer, flies

… etc.

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