Parallel Collage-Poems 3

 

Parallel Collage-Poems, 6/2004

Xtian, Ribitch, Laura Lange, Eric Bragg, Jason Martian, Daniel Boyer, J.K. Bogartte, Andrew Torch

 

 

This surrealist game requires a minimum of 3 players.

Each person gives 1 graphic image and 1 line of poetic text to the other players. All players then use the images and lines of text (including their own) to construct a collage-image and collage-poem. In the process of construction, any item can be modified, in any way desired. Until everyone is finished, each person's work is kept hidden. When all images and poems are complete, they are shared with the group, with a comparison of the results.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Even the purple starfish dance
at night, touching their feet of hot pebbles,
nearly drowning in the wolf of the incoming tide.

A tape-measure roller coaster flakes away from the kite and falls
into the whisker of rickety traps.

Forget how, and instead, plow thru meatfaces:
what worked for grandpa will always be layers of skin for the
horizon-dwellers!

The prey most resembles a somnambulant shadow, just beneath
the reeling fever of a night-gown,
especially when being photographed in proportions of bereavement...
when those bells invade the cup of tea and then dismantle
the tragedy when it later sleeps
The night of tea like a skin nightgown
death bells, photographed within shadow, proportions
the falls of fever, a tape-measure prey touching the
purple tide,
a starfish along the incoming whisker of
bereavement.
How the layers forget the reeling darkness of
birds,
of somnambulant cup horizon-dwellers when those invade
my catastrophic angel of bereavement
Beneath the birds I was high
when then at last the darkness resembles a drowning
just what a grandpa saw:
the especially dance of birds found the
tragedy of the second kite will always dismantle a
rickety wolf
The pebbles plow even the nearly most coaster into
when it sleeps hot for later worked in Fall, wounder
of travel away from
right and through instead with their flakes and in
meatfaces forget
for which roller and in left feet the being he took to
be road and how!
The angel of death was my cup of
tea,
beneath the layers of skin, hot pebbles dance at night.
The horizon-dwellers invade the night-gown,
touching the catastrophific kite whisker
with the incoming wolf tide.
Rickety traps prey on the feet
of those drowning in the roller coaster
of the incoming tide

Far beneath the layers of skin, grandpa saw the angel of death in her
night-gown and decided to photograph her in darkness as flakes of the
purple starfish begin to travel when darkness falls, casting a shadow
like a wolf with a fever when it later sleeps.

The bells invade and dismantled the kite, spewing hot pebbles along like
a tape-measure plow thru meatfaces on the high road, second to left.

Especially when being the cup of tea, forget how and let the birds dance
at night, touching the horizon-dwellers, wounder of catastrophic
proportions.
Last night I saw flakes within
a somnambulant shadow, just beneath a bereavement of catastrophific proportions.
The darkness falls, nearly drowning in birds and starfish.
The horizon-dwellers photographed texts in the tragedy of the incoming
tide.
The angel of death, beneath the layers of skin took the high road.
The prey most resembles a cup of tea touching the purple darkness.
Whisker Torch's from the kite with birds dance at night... a reeling
fever for grandpa.
Those bells accept wonder, then dismantle.
Even the wolf sleeps when the meatfaces left.
Those bells of death within my
cup of night
photographed in darkness like a night-gown wolf,
within a somnambulant cup of sleep.
Even the birds dance within shadow like catastrophific proportions
then dismantle the incoming night,
especially the darkness beneath the layers of skin.
Starfish drowning in the night nearly reeling with fever
forget how a tape-measure roller coaster falls within my tea.
I sleep when those bells of death took the high road
which flake away and fall into the darkness.
Last night I saw the night birds with their feet nearly drowning
like a photograph of the bereavement beneath the rickety traps of night.
When I saw what the whisker was
for, the prey fall into rickety traps. Forget how the purple starfish
resembles a night-gown! Even the birds dance at night, touching fever
hot pebbles. The wolf, with the angel of death, travel along a tape-measure
roller coaster of catastrophific proportions. Horizon-dwellers invade
grandpa; their feet nearly plow the high road … the darkness, found thru
most, falls within a somnambulant shadow. The tragedy of drowning in
the layers of skin and being photographed, especially in darkness, will
always be like a bereavement when he sleeps. The wounder second to left,
worked for the kite instead of the night-gown and the reeling incoming
tide last night took my tea cup; which flakes right away from meatfaces.
Dismantle it later then, just beneath those bells.
Last night I saw the angel of death,
he took the high road, second to left.
The darkness falls,
hot pebbles travel.
Even the birds dance at night
touching the purple starfish with their feet.

the wounder whisker which flakes away from the kite
(just) beneath the layers of skin
will always be right for the horizon-dwellers.

The prey most resembles a night-gown,
when those bells invade the night-gown and then
dismantle
the wolf when it later sleeps
especially when being photographed in darkness...
nearly drowning in the tradegy of the incoming tide
along a tape-measure roller coaster,
within a somnambulant shadow
like a reeling fever found.

Forget how and instead plow thru meatfaces,
and fall into rickety traps.

What worked for grandpa
was my cup of tea:
"A bereavement of catastrophific proportions!"