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john parslow
4th October 2013, 15:18
Hello my fellow TOT’s, I feel it is time that we once again had a space to post our own poetry, so please feel free to post any of your penned thoughts here:

I’ll open this thread with an old one of mine.

The Imbalance

All along the sleepless hours’ men dream within their Ivory towers,
Of profit looming large as life while hunger cutting like a knife,
Precedes the Reaper with his blade and fells a man who is betrayed,
Not just by ‘brothers’ in the West whose butter-mountains are the best,

But also famine in the East where the masses have increased,
To levels which they can’t support and just to live they must import,
All food at an inflated price – an economic cash device,
Which makes one rich, another poor but all this must be changed before,

This beautiful and ancient race has disappeared without a trace,
From this our own fair Mother Earth, whose nourishment about her girth,
Should be enough for all to share, and feed the starving everywhere,
Here, where selfishness is rife, what then is the price of life?

For caring people seem so few, yet others say: ‘What can I do?’
Now is the time; become aware, no longer just to stand and stare,
Act now please make a solemn vow, dying children need you now,
The sharing-out has just begun there is enough for everyone …

c1980 © John Parslow

777
4th October 2013, 15:59
John that's absolutely gorgeous, love it mate! This isn't poetry as such it's rap but its very spiritual and of course writing rap lyrics is a form of poetry in itself, so I hope you don't mind me posting it?!

It's called Keep Me Awake and it's written, produced and performed by me. i made the video too, not that thats much of an accolade lol. Hope you enjoy!

4aBv5cwflDI

Tribe
4th October 2013, 16:13
Ahhhhh that's off the hook Ben ;) .. Seriously I love it !, nice backing to it too , top class ! Well done my brother ! X

john parslow
4th October 2013, 16:15
Excellent Ben! I love the sentiment in the title – keep me awake, I wish I had thought of that line for a poem … Don’t put yourself down the video is pretty cool too. I would love to see the lyrics printed below the video as a stand-alone poem and just for reference rap is poetry …

All the best mate. JP

The One
4th October 2013, 18:43
only time will tell

sometimes the hitting the ground
is worth the fall
sometimes the pain you feel
from love is all
that you will ever know
maybe with a closed heart and sad eyes
the only thing to say is goodbye
words will hurt
but time will mend
sometimes a broken heart
is only a bend
falling is hard
falling is rough
hitting the ground isn't easy
but maybe that's love
love never is easy
love isn't always hard
but the feeling when you try to start again
only to get shot from the sky
is very hard
sometimes love will give you wings
so you can fly
and if they're ripped off
the harder you will fall
when you crash to the ground
who will you call?
who will pick you back up
who will help you start again?
will it be family?
will it be friends?
will you be on your own?
only time will tell...

Mark
4th October 2013, 18:53
Tennis

Twang
Bouncey bouncy, bouncing, bounces
Thwack
Thwock
Sigh...
Twong

john parslow
4th October 2013, 18:57
Another not-so-oldie:

Broad Beans

We harvested our broad beans yesterday,
Banana-wrought legumes of satin-green,
Into the plastic buckets one by one,
The stalks growing naked as Winter trees.

Olive-green fingers rape the pregnant pods,
As pristine coins lay in downy velvet purses,
With slippery thumbs we made them tumble,
Into colanders and our hungry mouths.

The young and sweet were blanched and frozen,
And old-men left to dry in garden trays,
In the August sun they quickly turned to stones,
And packed away for spring times yet to come ...

29th September 2010 © John Parslow

The One
4th October 2013, 19:04
today

after today ends
where will i be?
will life be great?
will i be free?
will the sun ever shine?
will i be able to breathe?
in twenty years
where will i be?
will all the people i have hurt
be able to forgive me?

i dont have all the answers
but im not afraid
because i still have today
today is a chance
to make it alright
today is a start
to ease the pain
i dont know if i have tomorrow
but i still have today
so why wait?
so why hold back?
im living today
like its my last
for it very well could be

after today ends
i will not be afraid
as long as there is a breath inside of me
i am going to set things right
i am finally going to be
the person i set out to be
like it or not this is me
life goes by so quickly
so lets just get a grasp on today

Mark
5th October 2013, 08:08
I hope my initial efforts did not be interpreted aa disrespectful?

I hope y,all know what im about by now ;-)

I will try in earnest to deliver something a little more soulful (may have to pich some of your stuff though to do it!)

Sooz
5th October 2013, 09:49
I know rap is not everyone's cup of tea, but I consider it modern poetry.

Here are the lyrics to one of my favourite songs at the moment:

Breathe by Hilltop Hoods, an Australian rap band.

http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/hilltophoods/breatherestrung.html

Actual song Live, I will post in a minny (originally posted on 'what I'm listening to now).

Sooz
5th October 2013, 09:52
There ya go!


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D1Tb9qEBSschttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D1Tb9qEBSsc

john parslow
5th October 2013, 20:04
BLUEBELLS

A gnarled Ash stands lonely sentinel, dark, coarse and brooding our worth,

The solitary guardian in our garden: the one which we call Earth.

'Neath its umbrageous leafy canopy, bluebells rock their dance of doom,

A prolific blue-helmeted army - foot soldiers in the penumbral gloom.

Underfoot they grind a yellow carpet, celandines cowering in shadows low,

The indurate Ash looks on oblivious, to this carnage wrought below.

Faces veiled, wood anemones observe, to and fro their creamy heads,

In mute disapprobation - dumb prisoners of their beds.

With furtive glances; this way and that an occasional glimpse across the leas,

They watch the Bluebells legions toll, relentless on the spring breeze ...


10th August 1981 © John Parslow

Mark
6th October 2013, 09:32
Rainbow fly-by

Silvered chrome, droplets, speed gliding,
SunLight disc lines growing and receding,
Searching for nothing and all,
Metallic audio, the reverberation tasted,
Modulated, synthesised,
supreme Acceleration, misted canopies,
Pristine awareness, pristine surveyor,
Impossible flight,
Limitless in the colours,
Intention is joy,
Intention to be.

(Taken from powerful strange memories I have from what seems to be during a joyful experience of flight in a unspoilt lush land as some kind of part machine being,.....go figure?)

Ineffable Hitchhiker
6th October 2013, 11:09
Mumbo Jumbo
Gobble dee Gook
Good guys
Bad guys
Us and them
Pick a side
Shoot far, shoot wide
Happy and sad
Peaceful and mad
All kinds of being
in waves of eternity
from here to infinity
until, yes until
the internal flame burns out.

A mind filled with stuff
that repeats over eons
discard the dischord
laugh at the clowns and
the ringmasters booming voice
Mumbo Jumbo
Gobble dee Gook
The war is not out there
It´s.....

in you!
:)

john parslow
7th October 2013, 08:58
Upon Hayle Cliffs in Spring Tides

Perched upon a craggy ledge once part of the ocean floor,
On soaring granite black-hued cliffs with flotsam strewn ashore,
Wrap’d against the elements, Oh hark to the shriek and whine,
A convoluted sorrow on this metamorphic aureole spine,

Riderless white horses buck and scream at Mother Earth,
Their fury unabated, fragment and smash onto the surf,
Now, morbid sky lugubrious with voluminous clouds of lead,
A panoramic terror looms, above the anguish and the dread.

All at once the heavens rent exposed on a dilluvial stage,
Immeasurable precipitation churns the boiling foam to rage,
I pull my sodden raiment’s close and trudge towards the lea,
But I’ll not forget the beauty of this massive storm at sea …

3rd October 2010 © John Parslow

Tribe
7th October 2013, 14:38
Beannacht – For Josie

On the day when
The weight deadens
On your shoulders
And you stumble,
May the clay dance
To balance you.

And when your eyes
Freeze behind
The grey window
And the ghost of loss
Gets into you,
May a flock of colours,
Indigo, red, green
And azure blue,
Come to awaken in you
A meadow of delight.

When the canvas frays
In the currach of thought
And a stain of ocean
Blackens beneath you,
May there come across the waters
A path of yellow moonlight
To bring you safely home.

May the nourishment of the earth be yours,
May the clarity of light be yours,
May the fluency of the ocean be yours,
May the protection of the ancestors be yours.

And so may a slow
Wind work these words
Of love around you,
An invisible cloak
To mind your life.

John o donnohue

BabaRa
7th October 2013, 23:39
I wrote a book of poems 20 some years ago. Here's one, hope you like it.


Illusions of Light, rippling through the night,
Blinking, twinkling stars, radiant hosts of ours,
Diamonds in the sky, to make us wonder why
Are they truth or do they lie?
Those crystalline delights, gemstones of the night.
Are they mere Illusions of the Night?

Illusions of Light, joyous fanciful of flight.
Moon of platinum glowing, in the velvet nightscape flowing,
Wise woman of the sky, there to make us wonder why,
All truth does she defy?
A silent, luminous dreamer, or scintillating schemer,
Reflecting silver streamers, to keep our souls in flight
Through the shadows of the night?

Illusions of Light, exploding through the night,
Flashing, sparkling with thunder,
Every effervescent wonder,
Golden bolts of earthly plunder
Rolling with the angry drum,
Till the pounding rain doth come,
Commanding of the mighty Thor
Unleashing lightening bolts to soar,
Upon the Earth a Titan's roar,
Thrusting fear into our core
Commanding mortals seek for more
Those thunderbolts of night,
There to guide us to the light
In the madness of our fright?


Illusions of Light, the same in every sight?
Diamonds on black velvet tray,
To sacred twilight does give way.
The breaking dawn, breath caught
Streaking sky, colors fraught
To contemplate is all for naught.
Let the intuition rule, least ourselves we fool
That beauty is Illusions of the Light.

Illusion of Light, wondrous in its sight,
A large bouquet of hues, resplendent in it views,
Coloring the day, a rainbow they say,
In ballads sung of old, promises the gold,
Another illusion? but the consistent confusion
of tales through the ages, in books it fills the pages
From the worlds of sages.
It cannot be a fable, for each of us is able,
To see those great Illusions of the Light.

Mark
8th October 2013, 09:02
I have to say there are some remarkable poems here, you bunch have very poetic hearts and fine souls to see the way that you do, I am honoured to share this space.

:unity:

Altaira
8th October 2013, 09:24
I finally found time to read this so powerful and uplifting thread, I am glad I did. You guys are so talented this really made my day and it will days ahead.

Sooz
8th October 2013, 09:30
I wrote a lot of poetry when I was 13 about the earth tilting on its axis and a new planet coming into the earth's atmosphere.

And all the water covering the existing land mass. And the sea bed being the new earth to begin again anew.

That was when I was 13, I'm 55 now.

I didn't know anything of what I do now.

I can't find them now... the poems that is.

Gone forever I guess.:D

Sooz

john parslow
8th October 2013, 16:32
I wrote a lot of poetry when I was 13 about the earth tilting on its axis and a new planet coming into the earth's atmosphere.

And all the water covering the existing land mass. And the sea bed being the new earth to begin again anew.

That was when I was 13, I'm 55 now.

I didn't know anything of what I do now.

I can't find them now... the poems that is.

Gone forever I guess.:D

Sooz

In that case Sooz, put pen to paper in any idle moments and give us all a treat. Love JP

john parslow
8th October 2013, 19:07
THE OLD MAN

I met an old man down the lane as bent as a printer's thumb,
He stopped me in that leafy bower to ask from whence I'd come,
"I be an Aylesbury boy," says I, "an' who ol' man be you?"
"'Tis a' honest question son, an' I shall answer true.

"When the Winter's icy fingers freeze, 'un we puffs on ours in vain,
The North wind snarls so grand to blow a dog right orf it's chain,
And all the jolly tars who laugh no more are frozen to the mast,
I be the one to take them 'ome to rest in peace at last."

Standing 'neath that dappled arc, I eyed this ancient gent',
My feeble mind worked overtime to work out what he meant,
"Be thee from afar," I said - to charge that silent space,
"Depends," he smiled and countered, "on what you may call place."

I fumbled deep in my pockets torn, of a faded memory,
To comprehend this puzzle, which I really could not see,
The sky was rent, and rain did fall in bathtubs, full of woe,
I was wet as a ferret and decided it was time that I should go.

I took the old man's fingers gnarled, in hand and shook them well,
How his hand was dry and mine was wet I really cannot tell,
I said, "Nice to talk good neighbour, but I should be on my way,
"And same to 'ee young Aylesbury boy, we'll shake again someday..."

21st November 1986 © John Parslow

Ineffable Hitchhiker
10th October 2013, 06:27
Cycles

Planets align
startled stars
dervish dancing
through eternity

Earth trembles
quiet anticipation
elder´s prophecies
in want of truth

Foundations crumble
veils lifted
authority questioned
beings awaken

War and peace
travelling companions
articulate madness
perspective illusion

Reason and meaning
consciousness pleading
picking carcasses
waiting for a rebuttal

Ineffable embraces
mortal creatures
and whispers
"the answer is always love"






http://i.imgur.com/jfsWTXz.jpg

john parslow
12th October 2013, 10:48
AUTUMN

One crispy sunlit morn’ I chanced to ramble through a wood,
‘Neath a semi-naked arboreal arch it was evident as I stood,
Underfoot the dying fetid lungs of copper and burnished gold,
‘Twas now the Autumnal season as I trudged through leafy mould.

I meandered long under branch and bough thro’ copse and spinney too,
Occasionally sunlight struck me through a glistening drop of dew,
Way overhead Birch; Oak and Elm brandished naked arms at me,
A dendritic kaleidoscopic creation and gratis for all to see …

17th October 2010 © John Parslow

john parslow
15th October 2013, 07:43
TO MARKET

Reddeled ashen sheep with barred eyes,
Ruminate away short austere lives,
Huddled so close at journey's end,
Enduring oaths poked by ruddy men.

Who live fat and warm within their skins,
And trade in slaughter ‘pon the whims,
Of market price, for wool and lamb,
Yet pay no heed, or e’en give damn.

About the bloodshed wrought upon,
These naïve beasts which know no wrong,
They boast no feelings of remorse,
Just watch the killing takes its course.

Hot blood runs deep among the mire,
A Sunday lunch their funeral pyre,
And no more o'er the sward will play,
These creatures they have bought to slay ...

3rd April 1987 © John Parslow

john parslow
15th January 2014, 09:26
Chemtrails

There’s something in the air blocking out a moonlit sky
The people far below are sleeping sheep as we fly by
Spraying chemicals through the night dropping over you
Black choppers flying high above hiding in the midnight blue

We blanket all the world as the cities pass like quiet screams
We spray rivers and hills all fauna and forests also streams
People gaze open-mouthed because we take them by surprise
Everyone below us knows the wherefore’s but not the why’s

We're polluting all the atmosphere and sullying a divine sky
We're melting all the ice and everything is dying by and by
Suddenly swooping low down on a beautiful ocean deep
Killing all marine life, it’s enough to make a grown man weep

We're murdering the air …
We're murdering the sea …

15th January 2014 © John Parslow

Susan
15th January 2014, 13:45
These are great! Want to see more!

john parslow
15th January 2014, 16:07
Hello Susan

Please feel free to add some of your own. JP x

Susan
15th January 2014, 16:40
I will add some soon.

john parslow
16th January 2014, 07:05
SUNFLOWERS

I was privileged to meander through fields of gold in France,
Surrounded by huge nodding heads during a diurnal dance,
In heliotropic resonance Sunflowers turned this way and that,
The merciless sun beat down on me as sweat poured from my hat.

Beautiful golden-yellow heads of inflorescent flowers,
An exquisite way to expend a day and while-away the hours,
With clusters of spirals in the golden angle 137.5 degrees,
Fibonacci’s seeded row’s our senses to appease.

Packed with Nature’s goodness; minerals and vitamin E,
Healthy fats and proteins a treat that’s almost free,
A German Sonnenblumenkernbrot is such a tasty snack,
I’ve learned to make this bread myself; now I have the knack.

Proud State flower of Kansas; once so vexed o’er by Van Gogh,
The Ukraine’s National flower and a Vegan’s sign en bloc,
I planted some myself this year a ballet above the weeds,
Decapitated heads are drying now and soon I’ll eat the seeds …


29th October 2010 © John Parslow

Seikou-Kishi
16th January 2014, 16:57
Redacted

ronin
17th January 2014, 06:16
Walk with me
Your seeking is almost done
With glee in my love
Giddiness within me
Lets take a walk together

Take a walk with me
Barefoot and free
Feel the grass
Listen to the trees.

Walk with me
For just a little while
Kiss the wind
Breathe through your smile

Walk with me
Touch the world with your heart
Feel the pulse
Let the rhythm begin to start

Walk with me
Open your eyes
What do you see
I gave you everything
You were just blind
Of the creation in me.
Every time you walk
Do not forget
Our little talk
for i am the seeker
awaiting my your return
with excitement and wonder
to listen to your stories
of the earth and it,s glories

baptism of the flow
you will feel from me
all you have to do is just believe.

john parslow
25th January 2014, 15:22
EMANCIPATION?

Suddenly across this nation thanks to modern education,
Is a feeling of elation - 'Feminine emancipation'!

Us men feel no compensation for this new co-operation,
From the fairer population which may only court frustration.

Due to the deregulation of a well-tried legislation,
Now, who has the information to avoid the provocation?

'Who does what to whom' relation must not cause a violation,
Thus I need make application for my final resignation.

Once, I knew the operation, gave my seat up at the station,
But with all this new sensation I am left in reservation.

Will it lead to aggravation raise my hat? In violation
Of the rules in this narration, ending in my low prostration.

I think, that with calculation and astute administration,
Men should call for publication of the status Quo ...

26th August 1987 © John Parslow

john parslow
25th January 2014, 15:31
THE SILENT CHURCHYARD


Weaving around the winding hill thus veiled from my eye until,
All at once above the Yew a windswept steeple stirs into view.

Today it seems this lofty spire with merely echoes of the choir,
Calls the faithful home no more; just broken panes and rotting floor.

Guttering's all stuffed with leaves; raucous magpies roost in eaves,
Wide-open to the dewy morn' no shelter for the parish born.

'Neath the Yew across the yard; weathered monuments on guard,
Mute in their lone company - a long-forgotten memory.

Sunlit shafts through leafy bowers inform me of the passing hours.
White clouds which scud across the lee drag me from my reverie.

So down again the winding hill over my shoulder I look until,
A rusty vane is all I see of this secluded cemetery ...

7th April 1987 © John Parslow

donk
5th February 2014, 17:44
Replying to Barb's post on a different thread--where I was thinking about an issue I was having trouble relating to my love, I realized I was thinking about my situation rather poetically...so I wrote it down thusly:

We chose to walk
Hand in hand
A path beset on all sides
Fraught with trouble
Joy and puzzles
And everything in between.

We thought it’d be easy
Destiny’d just take us
Set us down, lovingly
Into pain free bliss.

I found out this:
There is no destination
And the ride ain’t always easy
The path not in front of us my Love.

Wanna know where?
I’m wrong about most things
But this one, I think I got right…
Dare to listen?

I wish I could offer
A spoon dipped in sugar
Just shove down the medicine
But that’s not the point
(and there is no spoon!)

The meds be the healing,
The process itself
And my hand can be the sugar
But it will never be enough.
YOU have to take the plunge!
(Which means you gotta let go of my hand)

The path has always been within
(And so have all demons)
Once you learn to navigate
The wonderful, murky road
Smelling the flowers
While dodging the bullets
Staying detached from it all.

Once you can swim
The inner stream without fear
Ride the wave
In loving detachment…the rest comes easy.

I will always be at your side
Doing my best, to help you pull yourself up
Whenever you slip or fall
I just can’t push
You have to want it
Take the plunge
A journey starts with one step
And becomes something else
Every time you lose focus.

FOCUS. Know thyself.
You are love.
Love is truth.


It worked out pretty well, she finally got what I was trying to communicate....

donk
8th February 2014, 15:44
We tried to tell everyone
We aren't who we said we are
And no one believed us.

That's what happened
When we dreamed the same dream
Woke up, and shared it.

Curt
8th February 2014, 15:55
:ok:

.....

john parslow
8th February 2014, 17:01
TO A PAST LOVE

Oh I still recall those halcyon days, gone alas the flowers of youth,
When I was ever guilty-green and summers’ seemed to last forever,
Autumn colours were your hair, and kissed your skin of silken-cream,
I loved you then, I love you still - how fleeting love's bloom fades.

Your naïve eyes were rainbow-flashed, so honest yet with power to hurt,
Trespassing those passing hours, as wine-red life coursed through our veins,
We held struggling raptures in our grasp, that neither could contain,
I loved you then - I love you still, when you were clay I moulded.

The memory of our love's first-flush, still torments my friendless hours,
We gave of ourselves, both love and passion, in a moral confusion,
Those torrid days came to sudden end, an eagle flew down from the night sky,
I loved you then - I love you still, when open-wounds his talons tore.

He charmed my one true love away, picked my bones, left me to die,
Those halcyon days of yesteryear, have long been trampled down in time,
And memories - my personal hoard, their worth to me are more than life,
I loved you then - I love you still, I wonder do you think of me …

© John Parslow 21st March 1997

dianna
27th March 2014, 18:29
http://wrestlethemuse.weebly.com/uploads/2/0/3/8/20380605/3086804.jpg?492

INFERNO, CANTO I
(Cut-up Method)


A poet in all thoughts despondent
Had abandoned the true way
If from this savage place
An hour of time could escape
Into a delicious season
It would impede woe and worse

Time began the morning
A wild beast at a mountain’s foot
A point where the valley terminated
With ravenous hunger
Coming against the emperor who reigns above
By degrees against a silent sun

Hoarse and full of slumber
Contented envy well repeated
How there entered a ruthless pathway
Terminating other poets honour and light
Greedy will with variegated skin
Late hope seemed long continued

Pity comes already vested in planet’s rays
Bitter within a dark forest
Fleeing onward savage, rough and stern
Lead left by every forlorn road
Time slopes the living soul
Death and nature is little more weary

Art alone is distressful breath
A desperate frightened air laments
Veins pulse and tremble back to hell
Perilous gazes explore wounds
Where the ascent and hunt began
Meagerness disconsolate was burned


William S. Burroughs Cut-ups

http://www.languageisavirus.com/articles/images/william-s-burroughs.png


Burroughs discovered the cutup in 1959 in Paris through his friend Brion Gysin , a painter. When Gysin began experimenting with cutups in his own work, Burroughs immediately saw the similarity to the juxtaposition technique he had used in Naked Lunch and began extensive experiments with text, often with the collaboration of other writers. (Although Burroughs has credited Gysin with discovering the cutup, he has also acknowledged similar literary experiments in the works of Tzara, Stein, Eliot, and Dos Passos.) In 1960 Burroughs published his initial cutup experiments in Paris in Minutes To Go (with Brion Gysin, Sinclair Beiles, and Gregory Corso) and in San Francisco in The Exterminator (with Brion Gysin), works that were partially intended to introduce the technique to the public. Throughout the 1960s Burroughs and Gysin collaborated on cutup experiments in many media, the most significant collaborations being three films done in 1965 with English film maker Antony Balch (Towers Open Fire, Cut-Ups, and Bill and Tony) and The Third Mind, a book first completed in 1965 but not published in English until 1978. The final version of The Third Mind is both a historical collection of cutup experiments from 1960 to 1978 and a manifesto that sums up the cutup's significance for Burroughs and Gysin.

Burroughs with his cut-upsBurroughs with his cut-ups The cutup is a mechanical method of juxtaposition in which Burroughs literally cuts up passages of prose by himself and other writers and then pastes them back together at random. This literary version of the collage technique is also supplemented by literary use of other media. Burroughs transcribes taped cutups (several tapes spliced into each other), film cutups (montage), and mixed media experiments (results of combining tapes with television, movies, or actual events). Thus Burroughs's use of cutups develops his juxtaposition technique to its logical conclusion as an experimental prose method, and he also makes use of all contemporary media, expanding his use of popular culture.

As Burroughs experimented with the technique, he began to develop a theory of the cutup, and this theory was incorporated into his pseudoscience of addiction. In addition to drugs, sex, and power as aspects of man's addictive nature, Burroughs adds an analysis of control over human beings exercised by language ("the Word"), time, and space (i.e., man's physical existence and the mental constructs he uses to survive and adapt). Drugs, sex, and power control the body, but "word and image locks" control the mind, that is, "lock" us into conventional patterns of perceiving, thinking, and speaking that determine our interactions with environment and society. The cutup is a way of exposing word and image controls and thus freeing oneself from them, an alteration of consciousness that occurs in both the writer and the reader of the text. For Burroughs as an artist, the cutup is an impersonal method of inspiration, invention, and an arrangement that redefines the work of art as a process that occurs in collaboration with others and is not the sole property of artists. Thus Burroughs's cutup texts are comparable to similar contemporary experiments in other arts, such as action painting, happenings, and aleatory music. His theory of the cutup also parallels avant-garde literary theory, such as structuralism and deconstruction.


In his own words," Burroughs sets the method out:
http://irez.me/wp-content/uploads/2012/08/burroughscutup.jpg


"Pages of text are cut and rearranged to form new combinations of word and image-In writing my last two novels, Nova Express and The Ticket That Exploded, I have used an extension of the cut up method I call "the fold in method"-A page of text-my own or some one else's-is folded down the middle and placed on another page- The composite text is then read across half one text and half the other-The fold in method extends to writing the flash back used in films, enabling the writer to move backwards and forwards on his time track-For example I take page one and fold it into page one hundred-I insert the resulting composite as page ten-When the reader reads page ten he is flashing forwards in time to page one hundred and back in time to page one-The deja vu phenomena can so be produced to order-(This method is of course used in music where we are continually moved backwards and forward on the time track by repetition and rearrangement of musical themes-
In using the fold in method I edit delete and rearrange as in any other method of composition-I have frequently had the experience of writing some pages of straight narrative text which were then folded in with other pages and found that the fold ins were clearer and more comprehensible than the original texts-Perfectly clear narrative prose can be produced using the fold in method-Best results are usually obtained by placing pages dealing with similar subjects in juxtaposition."

Here is another Burroughs take on the cut-up method:

"The cut-up method brings to writers the collage, which has been used by painters for seventy years. And used by the moving and still camera. In fact all street shots from movie or still cameras are by the unpredictable factors of passersby and juxtaposition cut-ups. And photographers will tell you that often their best shots are accidents . . . writers will tell you the same. The best writings seems to be done almost by accident but writers until the cut-up method was made explicit-all writing is in fact cut-ups; I will return to this point-had no way to produce the accident of spontaneity. You cannot will spontaneity. But you can introduce the unpredictable spontaneous factor with a pair of scissors.


http://youtu.be/Rc2yU7OUMcI

"The method is simple. Here is one way to do it. Take a page. Like this page. Now cut down the middle. You have four sections: 1 2 3 4 . . . one two three four. Now rearrange the sections placing section four with section one and section two with section three. And you have a new page. Sometimes it says much the same thing. Sometimes something quite different-cutting up political speeches is an interesting exercise-in any case you will find that it says something and something quite definite. Take any poet or writer you fancy. Here, say, or poems you have read over many times. The words have lost meaning and life through years of repetition. Now take the poem and type out selected passages. Fill a page with excerpts. Now cut the page. You have a new poem. As many poems as you like. As many Shakespeare Rim baud poems as you like. Tristan Tzara said: "Poetry is for everyone." And Andre Breton called him a cop and expelled him from the movement. Say it again: "Poetry is for everyone." Poetry is a place and it is free to all cut up Rimbaud and you are in Rimbaud's place.

"Cut-ups are for everyone. Anybody can make cut-ups. It is experimental in the sense of being something to do. Right here write now. Not something to talk and argue about. Greek philosophers assumed logically that an object twice as heavy as another object would fall twice as fast. It did not occur to them to push the two objects off the table and see how they fall. Shakespeare Rimbaud live in their words. Cut the word lines and you will hear their voices. Cut- ups often come through as code messages with special meaning for the cutter. Table tapping? Perhaps. Certainly an improvement on the usual deplorable performances of contacted poets through a medium. Rimbaud announces himself, to be followed by some excruciatingly bad poetry. Cut Rimbaud's words and you are assured of good poetry at least if not personal appearance.

http://rlv.zcache.com/william_burroughs_cut_the_words_writing_postcard-r8eed19d4f90a4d0cb4ca6a655871dc64_vgbaq_8byvr_512. jpg

"All writing is in fact cut-ups. A collage of words read heard overheard. What else? Use of scissors renders the process explicit and subject to extension and variation. Clear classical prose can be composed entirely of rearranged cut-ups. Cutting and rearranging a page of written words introduces a new dimension into writing enabling the writer to turn images in cinematic variation. Images shift sense under the scissors smell images to sound sight to sound to kinesthetic. This is where Rimbaud was going with his color of vowels. And his "systematic derangement of the senses." The place of mescaline hallucination: seeing colors tasting sounds smelling forms.




http://www.languageisavirus.com/articles/articles.php?subaction=showcomments&id=1099111044&archive=&start_from=&ucat=#.UzRj5P3nHwI

Tribe
5th May 2014, 16:50
A poem I wrote when I was 10 years old

They made boats from twigs and vine
To catch fish from a hand made line
And the dog sat and howled at the moon

They sang as they walked back from the water
With a feast for their sons and their daughters
And the dog sat and howled at the moon

A fire had been made from wood and stone
To be lit just before the men had come home
And the dog sat and howled at the moon

With songs in their hearts and joy in their voices
They all sat and gave thanks for their choices
And with hands held high in the air they all sat
And howled at the moon

Tribe xx

ronin
24th May 2014, 16:51
a random muse.


I,m letting go

Letting go of my surroundings
Letting go of all that surrounds me.
I,m letting go,i,m letting go.

All the things that i see are not me,
Are not me.
Let me go ,let me go.
I,m not me .i,m not me.

Believe me when i see
The world as it is.
We are not meant to be.
Not meant to be.

This way.

Let me go.
Let us go.
No more.
This way.

In music,in words i find the creative work divine.
But your intention is to keep us blind.

Now let us go,let us go.

ronin
5th July 2014, 14:18
I see now what you are,
just looking from afar
remembering a past
only now seeing what you really are.

I swung from your branches in happiness and glee
Those summer days will never leave me.
I Climbed up your trunk
To see just what you could see.

I fell with a bump on one occasion or two
I gave my first kiss,under your leaves on that night
Carved my love,s name into your hide that,s true
A love that never lasted,a teenage romance,i without a clue.

I watched you grow with me forever and a day
Your majestic smile that never once did wane.
The animals,birds and bee,s saw you as home
Your love was unforgiving to all that did come.

I watch as i see my children play under your shadow
I hear your rustle, your creaks just being mischievous as can be
I know you will love them just as you loved me.

That branch that i stood upon so long ago
Is way up in the sky,i can see that i know
The last time i climbed to see the horizon afar
I knew i was never coming back down
From the heavens up above
You gave me joy and a guidance
And a unconditional love.

Oh my old oak tree.

ronin
2nd August 2014, 16:59
For every moment that you have been hurt.
I was there with you.
Every feeling that you have felt.
I felt it with you.
When you laughed i laughed also
I am near to you.
When you cried
I cried with you.

Your life is a vision that i share with you
Sometimes you forget i stand by you.
Lest we forget creation is for you.
And in turn you create for you.

The wars will come and many will die.
Famine and plague
All that is dire.
Never forget no matter your age
That i walk your life with you
I encompass you.
With love.

john parslow
2nd August 2014, 19:09
Redacted

Why the redaction my good fellow? Your words are always full of wisdom and much appreciated here ...

Ria
31st January 2015, 14:42
I was sent this to day.
A***** B***** in Remembering N***
11:07am Jan 31
At 11 am on this Saturday three years ago we were at Golders Green for the service for our lovely E*** who chose the same path as N***. I respectfully share the following poem which might bring a little comfort. I can't remember where it is from - I think it might be from the SOBS web site.

The Choice

Dedicated to those who have left and those who are left

I chose my time, I chose my way
I chose to stay, not another day

Don’t hurt yourself, don’t wonder why
... I made my choice, my sweet goodbye

Cry for me not, I have my peace
Please respect, my short-lived lease

It wasn’t to punish, or cause great pain
No upper hand, nor spiteful gain

It was a thought, a mood, a chance
Our worlds have changed, a circumstance

For the tearful eyes, I leave behind
To make you suffer, was not in mind

I am ever near, so remember me
And the stupid stuff, that caused such glee

Take all these thoughts, and give them space
Banish bleaker ones: they have no place

And because I trust, you love me so
You’ll understand, I had to go

I’ll suffer not, I won’t grow older
There’s nothing more, for me to shoulder

I didn’t explain, I made my choice
And so this poem, becomes my voice

So pray for me, I pray for you
I pray for strength, to carry you

Because
I chose my time, I chose my way
I chose to stay, not another day

InCiDeR
22nd April 2015, 16:32
http://s21.postimg.org/a2a96nt47/Cross_sepia_desert.jpg

Before the cross

Before the cross
the old tailor
with bone hollows
staring at the bodies
without seams

Under the willow mirage
he held stars in the palm

Among the clouds
the sun shone up
the face
of the shadowless

They were given a livelier dream
but did not wake up

Desert seeds
stigmatized life
On the assembly line
they sold souls for a glass bead

I stepped into the cross



---
Disclaimer: I am not a professional translator in any way, so I don't know how much I lost in translation. When I use my mother tongue I am extremely careful when choosing the exact right synonym for each and every word, catching the precise nuance. I also often use "poetic freedom", so many times I don't even find a word in english. Now I really and truly understand why you should always read a book in the original language!

Spiral of Light
22nd April 2015, 20:56
Message From Higher Self

Springing forth in golden light
Rending through mindless chatter,
A message from my higher self
On an important matter.

Attention is now focused
Upon the message clear.
Though not expecting it right now,
I’m happy that it’s here.

Stated in an artful prose
With presence that is awesome,
Making sure I have no doubt
Where this message comes from.

I know You now. That is clear.
I know when You have spoken,
Interrupting mundane thoughts,
Through daydreams cracked and broken.

And I question now how often
Throughout our history
Have You spoken in my ear
With no response from me?

Too overwhelmed and busy
With matters of daily life,
To hear You in those days gone by.
And, for that I suffered strife.

Thank You for your message now
I know You as I hear it.
My welcome friend with sound advice,
Honored Presence and Bright Spirit.

InCiDeR
24th April 2015, 20:38
http://images.hdwpics.com/15C8D191F26D/Ocean-Sky-Bridge.jpg

Bridge of compassion

The never-ending river of insanity
when holy men
carved cross
into terrorized rabbit eyes

The scorched smell of indifference
burned at the stake
to those contented

Evaporated tears
rose up
to weave a bridge of compassion
where we could walk
without fear

A crystallized drop
contained a whole universe
but was carried in the shadow
of the excised



---
Disclaimer: I am not a professional translator in any way, so I don't know how much I lost in translation. When I use my mother tongue I am extremely careful when choosing the exact right synonym for each and every word, catching the precise nuance. I also often use "poetic freedom", so many times I don't even find a word in english. Now I really and truly understand why you should always read a book in the original language!

Catsquotl
25th April 2015, 06:22
A shelter made of dreams abandoned.
Keep me safe on distant shores.

Sights and sounds eternal beckon me to be.
Come my friend let's share some tea.

With Love
Eelco

john parslow
25th April 2015, 10:21
Another oldie:

The Devil’s Footprints

On one peculiar precipitous night in February eighteen fifty five,
A dense and heavy fall of snow in the south of Devon arrived,
In the towns of Topsham, Lympstone, Exmouth, as everyone asleep,
Teignmouth and Dawlish in a cloak of white were buried deep.

On waking, village folk saw thousands of strange foot-tracks on the roof,
Bipedal steps at eight inch gaps all with a convex cloven hoof,
Over five parishes they extended covering an area of one hundred miles,
On tops of houses, high narrow walls with palings - even over styles.

They covered local gardens, enclosed courtyards bounded by walls wide,
Vertically up drainpipes tall, up fences and down the other side,
And trails would suddenly stop as if the creature vanished into thin air,
Right in the middle of open fields as though it landed or flew from there.

The locals were shocked to discover the tracks of an animal so strange,
A mysterious creature endowed with the power of ubiquity and such range,
Approaching and retreating many dwellings but no resting place was found,
Only cloven-hoof marks on two legs were left as markers on the ground.

Rather than navigate a straighter course possible for any creature to follow,
It steered the most complicated of climbs over every acclivity and hollow,
The greatest excitement was caused among all classes athwart the land,
The superstitious believing they were the marks of Satan or his band.

So what did happen on that night in early February eighteen fifty five?
Some thought it could be E.T. beings, others thought it best to hide,
The testimonies of hundreds were printed in the Times, so long ago,
As to what the creature was on a spree that night - perhaps we’ll never know …


© John Parslow 26th December 2011