Down the murky street to the door of my home I feel a cold, breathing whisper—
A message made of coffin-smells—
Not of decay and dirt only, but of you—
This sign is like the others.
Your way is chill oppression, where the sun is cold, and where the flowers move and whisper in my ears—
Through this unhappy medium we are kept close—
But how long, comrade, until you keep faith with me and we walk the night-winds in silent scrutiny of this hill?—
how long until our feet lift above this dripping earth?—
how long until this hill burns and pours its thick incense into the sky?—–
how long until I feel—and feel—and feel
NOTE: I created this poem by first making use of the infamous cut-up technique (invented and employed by my main man William S. Burroughs) and then doing some extensive editing, reworking, and revising. For those of you who are interested in trying this method out yourselves, there are some terrific cut-up technique generators out there in Internet Land, the best of them probably being this one here:http://www.lazaruscorporation.co.uk/cutup/text-mixing-desk
Be warned: unless you do some quality revision-work, your cut-up technique text will come out as gibberish. But, if you’re willing to do the work necessary to create something interesting (and coherent), it’s a fun way to surprise yourself by creating new verbal twists out of an old, familiar text.