poetry cut-up

poemcut 004

The Shine

The Shine

Doubtless, disappointed
the eloquent rooms.
The window made a face.
The pane cried.
Tired, numbly called
counting only want
with a busted wing.
Slipped across stone again
I speak waiting
hide, work
maintain distortion.
Remember to
up my revolution game;
compose howl,
Imagine.
I can see
a moaning ocean
the moon’s labor
mocking your towns.
Vanished rooms
laugh
know summer morning.
Immediacy spins
cut, gone.
Grow away
some other walls.
Some indolent place,
the shine.