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 based on 14 poems by Wilfred Owen.
o go now down north london grottos o on top soon grows common dogwood o to jog from woods thrown blossom o so oft gold frogs follow solomon o do not crow known months sorrows o no god took forth worlds comfort o lo too soon blows strong monsoon
Snowballs generated by my Snowball Poem Generator.
Using the -x option to exclude the characters AEIUY results in poems where O is the only vowel.
The World Pours
The world pours.
Swallows changed but nothing is pale
in the mammoth sand upon a clock swallow.
It will flat in its whiplash hand corners
and then to me; or else.
The dust earth of the root on its hill
has cringe longer stickiness.
wounded the ocean.
The bones in the vice of the steel of inspection.
The owl roosting, collapsed a pig.
Convenience is her blue-dark glow.
Carp-like sophistry is going to hole
like squabbles of oxen inaction
tearing perfect crannies.
from the body: flings a jig.
Bare-blown perfect tide-rip.
With the swallow screech
the sobbing depth
slakes scissors at the top.
The key feather:
Cut-up poem generated by The Text Mixing Desk by the Lazarus Corporation.