"The first cut-ups were juxtapositions of random newspaper and magazine articles, but soon printed books were used and new poems made from the cut-up words of Rimbaud and Shakespeare."

- Barry Miles, Ginsberg


* * *

by Lucas Edwards

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BARBARIC

by Artur Rimbaud 

Flowers: they and put back.  
O - softness. Oh - voice frosts over.  

And we for old caroms to the days.
And attack the head again.

White flowers, we seas seasons, 
seas in rain.  O - music!  Softness!
Charred infernos after the shocks.
O world.  The house well feels, meat flotant.

Flurries and the music and retirements, 
silk, flames, the forms of the foam.  
O - world!  Earthly raw at the far end
of arctic diamonds, the meats of the ices.

Infernos - fanfares - and caves - far 
to the old ones raining old hearts 
that are not feminine. The ends hear. 
Quite a country arrived. And, lo, the sweats.

They of the silk and that one of the softness, 
the fires of the hearts have not the stars 
of the tears and the hairs of the bin and 
virginity, volcanoes of the arctic pier.  

And by the... the eyes, the houses do not exist, 
on the eternally heroic wind, gulfs in strangers.  
And the assassins of the antique houses. 

- O softness of the old ones and non-being.


   

"Johann Peter Hebel³
Hat zwischen den Bein' ein Knebel
Und dass man ihn besser fassen kann
Hat er zwei grossen Knollen drann."


  

Canto Twenty-Five

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In imitation of the Beat Hotel cut-ups of Rimbaud (which I adamantly admit to have written), I repeat the experiment on Tuesday, February 12, 2003. The poem I've chosen to cut-up and "get inside of" - Burroughs claimed that cut-ups revealed the true contents of a work - a poem from Illuminations, "..."

I've used the original French and cut the poem into its 162 pieces of virus.¹ I toss them in an antique collander inherited from my grandmother.

I've smoked the requisite marijuana. I've made other offerings to the Muses. I've meditated and fasted. My breath is the breath of the holy, unmaliced. I am one with The Other.

I will go back there. The time is ripe to be a treasure diver.² I've tanked up but have not gotten tanked.

-ewl

BARBARE en Artur Rimbaud


Fleurs: elles et remis. 

O - douceurs. Oh - la voix givre.

Et nous pour vieilles virement aux les jours.

Et attaquent le tete encore.



Fleurs blanches, nous mers saisons,

mers en pluie. O - musique! Douceurs!

Les brasiers carbonisé aprés le chocs. O monde.

Le pavillon bien sent, viande flotant.



Rafales et la musique et retraites,

soie, flammes, les formes et sur les ecumes.

O - monde! Saiguante terrestre au fond

de diamante arctiques, les viande des glaçons.



Les brasiers - fanfares - et des grottes loin

aux anciens pleuvant des vieilles coeur

qui pas féminine. Les bouillantes entend.

Qu'on pays arrivée. Et lá, les sueurs.



Elles des la soie et qu'on des douceues,

les feux des coeur pas a la astres des larmes

et les chevelures des bin et sagnante,

des volcans des jetée arctique.



Et par le... les yeux,

le pavillon n'existent, sur

les éternellement du vent

d'héroisme, des gouffres en etres.



Et les assassins des pavillon antiques -

O douceurs de la vieilles et le n'existence.










BARBARIAN


Flowers: others and recycled 

O - ecstasy. Oh - the voice frost.

And we for aged ricochets in the days.

And attack the head again;



White flowers, our lake seasons,

lakes in rain. O - music! Ecstasy!

The embers carbonize after the shock. O world.

The ribbon long sensed, floating meat.



Billows and the music and campouts,

silk, flames, the shapes and against the foam.

O - world! Raw dampness toward the bottom

of Arctic diamonds, the meat of the icicles.



The fire - fanfare - and the grottos far

against ancient rain of older heart

which is feminine. The boiling take heed.

Soon nations arrive. And behold, the sweat.



Those of the silk and soon of bliss,

the fires of the heart are like stars of tears

and the long hair of far and raw...

the volcanoes of Arctic lunges!



And by the... the eyes,

the non-existant ribbon, against

the eternalness of the wind

of heroism, of the chasm of others.



And the assassins of old ribbons -

Oh, bliss of the historic and of non-being.



constructed and translated by Edward Lacie