This poem uses a found text as source material. The text was an essay called ‘Poetic Evidence’ by Paul Eluard. My method is one of deleting/editing. I use liquid paper.
Rather than writing words, I reveal them; by erasing the old I create the new.
Mace pots clam the hand,
taint the red pole.
Her menu if night be fry
and what nuts they have.
Bells that ring dark cold are news man
and beware the vile ear-mud on the shapeless, greatness.
There is no mode for him that seeks what he has never seen.
We long to wither.
Eyes equal an uneasy spite,
a sort of cut that ages,
Eyes, all ivory, all speech,
come to shut.
Eyes more useful than love.
Sin is the top ale,
it can devalue every man.
Sense is a solid sown, mental child.
By then thin, olden,
he ages, grouting wearily.
Post-very tight vanity.
Butterstone, magnetic sting.
A rented non-living plight inverts the verse,
out its hot art.
A uni-sentence fuses the truth, the truth, the truth
to the truth again.
Objecting to ponder.
A modern kiss,
a hip thing,
a terminal word,
a sly sentiment,
a sand sensation
Call my volume, soft hum.
This volume is a nail-snap,
a log-timed tribe,
a useless van’s immense rot,
an object, a tall order.
The hunger for elves is a potty war
that lashes the vinegary tone
between a real hat,
a concrete hat,
a blood-wound hat.
The hat that seems to emit an orgasmic yes.
To hide their lack and their hat torture.
Sea-books demonstrate knowledge and prison.
They bone food, sew order, rosy matter
and destroy meaning.
Trepan the threads countless swarm.
Pop hell in the till,
toot tree thought and soot-rot a member’s protest.
Man, an atheist,
went to the supreme being.
He dared to piss against the people’s being
From noon to print he enters
vile man forces
his liberal wee onto the name of God.
The supreme ape melts when its oneness
is wee wee fresh,
and snow, profound,
wet the roof he loved with nil words.
Tics and wolves are not being loved.
Impossible hair-princes pleasure their love-rise
they sour morality.
Our paradise, our God, our hell
and slow, liquid, skin-fires get blood-spit mad.
Sperm swords set up hep ways
that ape the true poets.
Lost, they hiss, ” Lion-trial. “
Lust must live first.
The maddest host waves at the she-ghosts.
Boil a total verse, bed it.
Trip, fear, sexist signs.
One moth-soft twat,
wet, moist, lights.
The fierce art, whether vulgar or subtle,
straps us by the toes.
Bland, auto-strip slides
adorn each beach object.
Aches meditate on becoming real holes,
to reveal the full, useless heat-sphere it creates.
rave themselves by the miserable fire and water.
Anal-weapons anger the eyes.
They demolish the imp’s rage,
they ravish the door’s open violence
and wither man’s face.
An array of arms and chants bunk the power ecstasy.
The long beast trims the slim chain of knowledge.
Here a swell driver pounds sea-demons
with his end-fuse.
An absurd bone and ice disc
slows down all the trees ariel-elastic.
Time apes the small, numb pig-person
and that is human greatness.
Today is a no-go area.
Never utter in the ears of the gun.
Axes bombard the ears with cheap wax.
Each artist dogs a mat with a bee-drawing.
Dirt chases tar over the evil, evil sea.
Sleep goddesses’ cries
fuse the moral nothings to the liberal ideas.
Death is present in wax and bells.
Under the pavement a ghostly song is heard.
Pay little heed to laughter
it is of science.