This was in the white of the year.
In winter, in my room,
I read my sentence steadily.
’Twas just this time last year I died.
A death-blow is a life-blow to some
If pain for peace prepares.
Bill Waters, 2015
Remixed works:
First Lines of Poems by Emily Dickinson
Heterogenous flows of philosophers influenced by the New Deal,
prostitution rings, bisexual states, Markov chains, linguistic
superstructures, feedback loops & Blessed Virgins allow the
production of art with a bureaucratic soul.
It is not a sign of revolution when the oppressed adopt the manners of
the oppressors and practice oppression on their own behalf.
Destroy, destroy.
Texas Fontanella, 2015
Remixed works:
The Female Eunuch, by Germaine Greer
Anti-Oedipus, by Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari
Jesus, carrying what looks like a dead woman,
the exhausted body of Greta Garbo,
uses one hand to splay her sex,
small holes at the corners left by pins
from numerous previous exhibitions.
Love is not this burden of images.
It is about the skin of a surface,
the trace of the human touch.
Here there are stains, there you find
a shelf that starts with a folder
labeled “Heaven, Paradise,”
and ends with empty canvases.
Howie Good, 2015
Remixed Work:
Marlene Dumas Paints Ambiguity into a Black-and-White World,
by Hyperallergic
XIV XIX
It was snowing At the sight of blackbirds
When the blackbird flew out of sight Why do you imagine golden birds?
Among twenty snowy mountains.
XX
XV Once, a fear pierced him:
I was of three minds Traced in the shadow
In which there are three blackbirds Of one of many circles
And lucid, inescapable rhythms . . . Was the eye of the blackbird.
The beauty of inflections.
XXI
XVI The river is moving
The blackbird whirled in the autumn For blackbirds —
winds. An indecipherable cause.
But I know, too,
The blackbird sat XXII
In the cedar limbs. It was evening all afternoon.
Icicles filled the long window
XVII And it was going to snow.
A man and a woman. The blackbird must be flying.
A man and a woman and a blackbird.
XVIII
I do not know which to prefer,
The shadow of the blackbird
Or the beauty of innuendoes.
Bill Waters, 2015
Remixed work:
Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird, by Wallace Stevens
Finally I could connect my nervous system to the global economy.
We were raised to believe that if we worked hard and passed all the exams, ev-
erything would be all right.
There are lots of ways to get fired and there are lots of ways to get laid off, the
distinction being that getting fired is directly about you and getting laid off
is purportedly first about your position.
Up until recently the work has mostly just been leveling the ground, etc.
Then things began to really come together around that.
Sometimes doing nothing is the most violent thing to do.
from 555 by John Lowther, 2015
Algorithmic approach:
Text Analytics
Remixed works:
Sleep Dealer (2008) dir. Alex Rivera
Penny Red: Notes from the New Age of Dissent, by Laurie Penny
“How to get laid off”, by Lance A. Glasser
From Shame to Love: The Politics of Hamlet. Interview with Simon Critchley.
Violence: Six Sideways Reflections, by Slavoj Žižek
I’ll melt you down like ice-cream.
It seemed like a fucking lifetime.
They’ve never been in sync since.
I look, and sip, and shudder.
You may need to reread it.
You have to make this right.
If you want another sippy sip.
Not here, not now, not you.
All those fucking cuss words are undignified.
Skepticism is the first step toward truth.
Walking that tightrope is no easy task.
I tried to make a dignified exit.
Lots of complex and intense feelings I didn’t know how to handle.
The giant mutant spider dog video is so funny I almost threw up.
from 555 by John Lowther, 2014
Algorithmic approach:
Text Analytics
Remixed works:
“Ice Cream”, by HYUNA
Captives – ч. 127
Woolf quoted in “The Unsaid: The Silence of Virginia Woolf” by Hishtam Mater
Testo Junkie: Sex, Drugs, and Biopolitics in the Pharmacopornographic Era, by Beatriz Preciado
My friend BP’s ex-wife offering me moonshine
Text on a pin for sale on Ebay
Ava Gardner: The Secret Conversations, by Ava Gardner, Peter Evans
Pensées Philosophiques (1746), by Denis Diderot
“The Dark Side of Emotional Intelligence” by Adam Grant, in The Atlantic
Daisies, by P. Nelson
“F–k Anti-Science”, by Natalie Reed
My friend Em on Facebook talking about this video
a an and as
cedars chambers
doors dwell
everlasting eye
fairer fairest for
gambrels gather
hands house
I impregnable in
more my
narrow numerous
occupation of
paradise possibility prose
roof
sky spreading superior
than the this to
visitors
wide windows
Rebecca Resinski, 2015
Remixed Work:
I dwell in Possibility, by Emily Dickinson
2nd floor of the motel:
crawling in and out of beds,
the madhouses fill
life stale,
wasted,
wrapped in a blanket
of loveless love
an out-dated yellow
notebook,
vases,
music.
Shloka Shankar, 2014
Remixed Works:
A Radio with Guts
Alone with Everybody
Are You Drinking?
Be Kind
Carson McCullers
- by Charles Bukowski
it is I
in the hung
ry haste of rivers,
in the
lone
ly drinks
at twelve,
playing schizo
phren
ia
thro
ugh lace-draped windows,
a monsoon cloud
that swells;
it is I
in the
tireless
waiting
of the betray
ed.
Shloka Shankar, 2014
Remixed Work:
An Introduction, by Kamala Das
I’m back in circulation. And it’s long, long I’ve waited.
So mind your every step. I’ll repay you with
interest somehow, mind. And every time you see a long
coffin lying about, do a little shake in your fine little boots.
I don’t want money, especially not yours.
Before I came ashore, having money about was not especially important
Avoiding a little
taste of the cat-o‘-nine-tails was a little higher on my little list.
It caused me extreme anguish to watch it used on others.
I didn’t choose to sail, as you have reason to know. You forced me into an extreme
state of no little agony.
Cherish your freedom, because soon you’ll be good and left, left
after being delivered by myself into extremest rendition.
It will do me good to see hypos keeping you awake…. myself comfy and taking
extremest pleasure in watching you arrive at where you are left to rot.
I call this city a land. Land.
I mouth my rage and my joy; to the east
is the sea, spleen, a hand-to-mouth existence; here, an antithesis of east: land.
Esther Greenleaf Murer, 2014
Remixed Work:
Call me Ishmael, by Jackson Mac Low
Note:
The original is an acrostic series using words
from the first few paragraphs of Moby Dick.
The present poem expands it into a new narrative.
Original words in bold.