THE RESULT OF A DRASTIC EDIT. a garbalisation. no flash photography please.

...and now

a written out poetry in writ out writing
that jokes and pokes a pointed stick at
the seriousness of society
using the contemporary techniques
of clairvoyance derision
cut-up drink & chance collision.

All poetry is found poetry, all poetry
is cut-up

(all poetry is made up)

"Fact of fiction?" she said,
raising her eyebrows
turning her head. "In fact,
and to tell you the truth, it matters little
to me," said Bree.
"For in fact I accept both fact and fiction
as similar."

I collect my material from many sources and appropriate
freely
a large amount of this collection consisting of
garbled miss-reads
which oddly enough usually seem to work
just as well
and after numerous edits and several
rewrites
there may only be a trace of
the original left, if that,
so,

when I am reading, researching
and a certain phrase or section
strikes me as applicable and usable

within a certain contextural situation
that I am attempting to construct

then I will use it.

"Creativity is learning to hide your sources."
Albert Einstein.

"The secret to creativity is knowing how to hide your sources."
Albert Einstein.

"Look son,
let's have a bit of fun."

as nail brilligs, as screw mimsys, as bolt brilligs,
we will gamble onto our bolt and gire into
the screw. So much so that
when plug and bold gamble, it's soon enough
a good enough slithy.
Indeed, as nail brilligs, so will we slithy
like screw right through, though not into
bolt.
Indeed, you may mimsy our nut
(please do) but this will only gimble
our screw,
blue.

Old shoes/Left out in the rain/I take your hand/Suddenly/I want to laugh/
Same old aches/Same old pains/

Today/Only the foolish whistle.

"You may say that all of your pronouncements are, in fact,
language-like, but in the end
I could never concede that any of your verbalisations are,
in fact, any kind of recognisable language, in fact
your kind of speaking in tongues is closer to some kind of
schizophrenic's word-salad rather than any kind of
devine language."

"I'm glad
rather than sad
that Lewis Carroll
was mad,"
said the doormouse to
the Mad Hatter,
as they dipped
the last of the chattering
children,
for Alice
up at the Palace,
in batter.