Found poem on how one day Europe will destroy itself in a hail of Men Fire

I decided to upload this poem, found in one of my shopping receipts last December, for posterity. Not that it will do much good, posterity being rarely apocalypse-proof. Having said that, I also thought it fit to include a gloss to the poem written collaboratively with friends on Facebook. Names have been redacted to protect the frivolous.

Found poem on how one day Europe will destroy itself in a hail of Men Fire

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minor outbreaks numbered

minor outbreaks numbered
two hundred and one
in a position where i can
have no existence and by the
artistic beauty of this affair, i was
at that time
scarcely a general and of
the straight straight line which you are

but, like the owl cooped in the true
space is a blessing for me to
enter into –
i do – but this is
all in vain
persisted

Made with Gnoetry. Source texts: S. Beckett, Three Novels; A. Square, Flatland. Liberal sculpting: subtraction and multiplication of words; no addition*. Emphasis on sound values (with performance in mind). Listen to mp3 here.

*Subtraction: removal of word(s) from output text.
Multiplication: insertion of word(s) extant in original output text.
Addition: insertion of word(s) absent from original output text.

Orkney Mash-ups

On the train home from my trip to Orkney and the highlands, I fed the contents of my travel diary into Gnoetry, along with Ian Hamilton Finlay’s Orkney-centric collection of lyric poetry The Dancers Inherit The Party. Here are some of the results.

From where I sit,
at the end of the bay –
a great hunk of otherwise.

What are these little birds, oh girl of mine?
Art is a question of toast.

I see no sea,
the foam,
the swell
is there,
the great
scotch
one, two,
dobbin.

The hairs are on his toes! she says,
then he: they’d tie them up and glower.

Well…
oh dear, how your cold sad face
leans on the glass of necessity.

a lack of chain stores,
little hills, a wee scotch burn
and a simple girl

Meanwhile he is brown,
and I do not remember
all that I mumble.

All the boats in the fields as they settle.
All the drawings in your skin.

I remember what Engels said: freedom is the found among the rain.

Sometimes, all it takes to make a memory is to say – what a hill!
Sometimes, all it takes to make a memory is to wipe their wires.

This piece came to me:
a line, scribbled in her
dear and silly scrawl. I like it –
that’s why my heart settles in

its slow descent. Yes, it’s something
to have your skin.
Here and there’s a crooked stamp –
it means a kiss, and so it reads like this.

Am I
an awful man? This
cat’s on the

Finlay
trail, there’s violence
in the rain.

Art and
poetry are the
keys to the

town. You
and everyone is
beautiful.

A lot of the evening sun
goes down. A writer

writes his beautiful.
Then the old man grows

inside his ears.
We have to eat.

Quite by chance –
a thunderstorm
in Gaelic!

Orkney
interior:
a lack of

chain stores,
little hills, mist shops,
mist shops, mist

shops, mist shops,
mist shops, mist
shops, old and slow,

did buy
myself a kind of
pilgrimage.