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.


bull skull


Pot Eden.

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.

Too old.

Prose, novel.


Butterstone, magnetic sting.

A rented non-living plight inverts the verse,

out its hot art.

Eaten verse.

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.

Speak ether.

Form dust.

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.

Ore-practise hole-divinity.

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



Swish, gack,

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

against cunt.


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. “

Let them.


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.

Dead-rot horses

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.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s