Crouched by bluebells,
Stumbling and floundering,
I saw his eyes close.
Distant rest began to work its own death.
One dies of war trudge.
Dead men tried to peg out soldierly fatigue;
A scarlet ferry across the channel
Bent double like time.
All went lame but limped on,
Deaf even to the trudge.
His hanging face, him drowning.
The magnificent recession of
Disappointed froth-corrupted farewell.
We in Paradise are cursed and hurting.
In your fifty smothering dreams, you too.
Can’t shake hands now.
Less life than white existence.
Even microbes have their backs
Towards our sev’rance.
If in some prejudiced parts
When I’m lugged gargling from the dust,
Bitter as the devil’s sick
And ripped from far Nirvana…
With my every jolt
Being the wind,
Nothing more than air…
Must I be his load?
— Let’s die home
With any old disease
And miss the drowning.
We’d hate to live dead.
Cut-up generated by The Text Mixing Desk by the Lazarus Corporation.
Based on 14 poems by Wilfred Owen.
Quite a bit of curation on this one. I’ve not amended the generated cut-up fragments, but I have re-arranged them into a comprehensible order and added punctuation. I had no initial plans with regard to the structure of the poem, I just mixed up the lines until they worked.
Actually, one change was made to the generated text. I changed a letter, from “Less live than white existence” to “Less life than white existence”.