Here I sitSame as everTake a dumpPull the leverThe toilet cloggedIt overflowedLook out, world - It's a mother lode

I don't know how recent a development it is, but the YouTube app on my phone now has a facility whereby you can scroll to a preview and the whole thing plays as a gif, with YouTube's own lousy captioning alongside. What a mine of cut-up poetry it is, particularly with football commentary, when crowd noise and overseas names rub up against whatever tech is doing the lifting.Selected lines, culled from last weekends Premier League. Chronology respected.this is a czar to have a guy walk bythree Brighton bodies but it bouncesthe joy to wash it times Lilly foryour way through to make thegatelet's pill a quitter into what's our[Applause]It's like an Iron Monkey lyric generator.

Billy-Ray Belcourt is a young Native poet from a poor reserve in northern Alberta (also a former Rhodes Scholar who's doing a PhD at age 24 and who just won the biggest poetry prize in Canada). The creator is transand the earth is a psychology experimentto determine how quicklywe mistake a body for anythingbut a crime scenethe product of older crime scenes.there is a heavenand it is a place called gay.gay as in let's hold up a world together.gay as in happy to make something out of nothingand call it love or anythingthat resembles a timein which you don't have to be those shitty versions of yourselfto become who you are now.one day i will open up my bodyto free all the people i've caged inside me.i want to visit every tim horton's in northern albertaso that homophobes can tell me sad things likei love youyour hair looks niceyou have nice cheekbonesuntil someone kills meand then the creator will write my eulogywith phrases likefreedom is the length of a good rim joband the most relatable thing about himwas how often he cried watching wedding videos on youtube.homonationalism, amirite?my grandma thought there was a portalto the other side in her basementbut it was all of the women she had ever metpraying in a circlethat she would give birth to a worldwithout menonly womenmadefrom other women's heartbreak.

Dinosauria, weBy Charles Bukowskiborn like thisinto thisas the chalk faces smileas Mrs. Death laughsas the elevators breakas political landscapes dissolveas the supermarket bag boy holds a college degreeas the oily fish spit out their oily preyas the sun is maskedwe are born like thisinto thisinto these carefully mad warsinto the sight of broken factory windows of emptinessinto bars where people no longer speak to each otherinto fist fights that end as shootings and knifingsborn into thisinto hospitals which are so expensive that it s cheaper to dieinto lawyers who charge so much it s cheaper to plead guiltyinto a country where the jails are full and the madhouses closedinto a place where the masses elevate fools into rich heroesborn into thiswalking and living through thisdying because of thismuted because of thiscastrateddebaucheddisinheritedbecause of thisfooled by thisused by thispissed on by thismade crazy and sick by thismade violentmade inhumanby thisthe heart is blackenedthe fingers reach for the throatthe gunthe knifethe bombthe fingers reach toward an unresponsive godthe fingers reach for the bottlethe pill the powderwe are born into this sorrowful deadlinesswe are born into a government 60 years in debtthat soon will be unable to even pay the interest on that debtand the banks will burnmoney will be uselessthere will be open and unpunished murder in the streetsit will be guns and roving mobsland will be uselessfood will become a diminishing returnnuclear power will be taken over by the manyexplosions will continually shake the earthradiated robot men will stalk each otherthe rich and the chosen will watch from space platformsDante s Inferno will be made to look like a children s playgroundthe sun will not be seen and it will always be nighttrees will dieall vegetation will dieradiated men will eat the flesh of radiated menthe sea will be poisonedthe lakes and rivers will vanishrain will be the new goldthe rotting bodies of men will stink in the dark windthe last few survivors will be overtaken by new and hideous diseasesand the space platforms will be destroyed by attritionthe petering out of suppliesthe natural effect of general decayand there will be the most beautiful silence never heardborn out of that.The sun still hidden thereawaiting the next chapter.

Cut-up poem from 1995:Burning, Tingling Sensation"Hank Williams personally had a very spiritual longing that was never satisfied."- The PopeThere was much to digestA kid I have fallen into the Belgian Wave where lovely virgins gossipand they insist that France beats All BlacksIll-informed superstition?O poor Paris where nudism meets fencingand the Gods are non-persons with us,Where literary rodents can't hardly keep from cryin'We're Number 1 We're Number 1I sometimes wonder how the Midwestern US sung in hymns the world oversacred land in which high school football players are very protective of partnersand the milk fills our bellies with divine mysteryis to be connected with the appearance of the New Age.God's here suiting up for spacewalkCome! he says Have you been sterilized?Not at all I say. Desire for personal salvationthe isolation, geographically and psychologically,it can really take it out of you.Yup. He laughs and pats the dog's head,that's the fuckin' truth.Written in a winter spent alone in my early twenties as a sort of handyman working at a tiny research outpost of a Belgian university down on Corsica. Started out funny and took a turn.

Death or pleasure, flood or vomit,autumn like the fall of the days,volcano or sex,puff of wind, summer that sets fire to the harvests,stars or teeth,petrified hair of fear,red foam of desire, slaughter on the high seas,blue rocks of delirium,forms, images, bubbles, the hunger to be,momentary eternities,excesses: your measure of man.Dare to do it:be the bow and the arrow, the string and the œay! Dream is explosive. Explode. Be a sun again. žOctavio Paz

GREEN LADLEback when you wrote me backI dug up the moose's bedtold you there beneath the new snow'swhere he shit and sleptin reverse order of coursethese rare moments two buttons on an undershirtwhen zippers are in styleno proxies no rivalsno furnaces no fishtanksI will remember

REPOSE IN CALAMITYCalamity, my great laborer,Sit down, Calamity,Take it easy,Let's take it easy for a minute, both of us.Easy.You find me, you get the hang of me, you try me out,I'm the ruin of you.My big theater, my harbor, my hearth,My golden cave.My future, my real mother, my horizon,In your light, in your great spaces, in your horror,I let myself go.- Henri Michaux (translation: W. S. Merwin)