Cut-Up

I've posted this before online, but I'll rerun it -- a cut-up of words by Jimmy Buffett, Kenny Rogers, and a translation of the poem De Profundis, by Georg Trakl. The following was fashioned with an online cut-up machine, after the technique developed by William S. Burroughs and Brion Gysin.

Grodekville

Nibblin' on sponge cake Watchin' those tourists covered away again in shaker of salt Some people to show but this brand new beauty A Mexican cutie of salt a woman to blame Now be my But there's booze in will render That frozen concoction claim blame But I know it's and some people on a train up with a gambler, we sleep to speak He said, son of reading people's faces sayin', I aces For a taste of some advice asked me for a deathly quiet, and his face You hold 'em, know when to walk away and for countin', when knows that the secret to throw that you can hope for And when he finished darkness, the in his final words I could keep is a hissing wind this evening.

Past the village pond
The awaits the sweet body
Decayed in the remote from sombre a light that I found myself upon a dust of Strummin' my six-string On my shrimp they're beginnin' there's a woman it's nobody's fault I don't here it got here I haven't again in Margaritaville Searchin' it could out my flip-flop Stepped on had to helps me hang on Searching for my lost shaker Yes there's a woman to blame own damn fault
On too tired to at staring out the window overtook knowing what the cards were, their eyes So if give you him my bottle, and he Then he all expression Said, if boy, you gotta learn to to to run You never count at the table Knowing what to to keep 'Cos every hand's a he turned back for the faded off to sleep that I stubble field on which a tree which, orphan still gathers scanty her eyes are gazing in am of God
I drank from the metal forms.
Spiders look garbage and the copse
Crystal angels have sounded once with oil front porch swing Smell those Chorus: Wastin' blame But I know know the reason I stayed How a clue Chorus: Wastin' away my lost shaker fault I blew a pop-top Cut my heel home Wastin' away again in Margaritaville of salt Some people claim that And I know it's my summers evening, So we took turns at the darkness The boredom And by the way they held don't mind my So I handed drank down my last swallow and you're gonna play the game, play it right Chorus: know when your money, when you're sittin' time enough away and knowing what a winner and every hand's speakin', window Crushed out the cigarette, somewhere in the There is a black rain falls.
There is a here.
There ears of corn.
Golden and round the dusk
And her lap hamlets.
The silence woodland well.

On my forehead cold heart.
There is of stars.
In the hazel more.





the sun bake All to boil Margaritaville Searching for my lost claim that all season Nothin' to tattoo But it's a real for Some people claim that there's I think Hell, cruise on back the blender And soon it that that there's a woman to my own damn fault a warm bound for nowhere I met were both us and he began I've made a life out you can see you're out of your whiskey, I'll bummed a cigarette light And the night got lost got to know when to fold 'em Know when There'll be the dealin's done Every gambler survive is loser And the best is that I end asleep And gambler he broke even But found an ace brown, stands lonely which haunts deserted huts---
How sad gentle the heavenly bridegroom.

Returning home
Shepherds found bramble bush.

A shade I for my fails in my mouth.

At night heath,
Thick with have sounded once