I created this piece through automatic writing, a technique created by Andre Breton. Afterwards, I typed it out, printed it, then used Breton's cut-up technique, jumbling four bits of the text together. I typed this out again. The result is this;
Can you see me? Damp fireplace, breathe fire. Why are you so angry, I did DOING WHAT I WANT when shoes are full of rusty are just another dream like all those before idiot box. Its tail still flapping one side to the next. I cried with the way you write poems like a its bone. What do you want of my granddaughter? You cant even see it so how do you know doesn't matter over again you tell me there's nothing ime. But you never trust me you're a liar lights, overhead, millions of blankets covering my legs then you have never proven me wrong why black milk and curl your legs up into an O, you softly are settling after a hunt in the mud you moles, sing, rhyme and pleasant plants along a corridor, always call me like in this feathered like a dream I had the other night. It was so odd like that's stuck in my head you draw a wave carpet and dreamed about a million deaths and is washing me away, washing those always filfthy like rabbits that filled up to their neck. Beautiful. For this you are mad, you are this way you vile cunt, you dank disgusting man, in the hospital waiting for an answer. Fills, sorting, out of place. You look at me like a lion who is about to, can you hear me? Supersitious. Nothing wrong. Idiot, fucking tool. It pisses rain as the dark dead cat and all those in front so why do you keep bothering books. As bricks pile up to build a dirty magazine, how sick are you, these spirits are calling, scent is masked so the dogs don't chew on that is not and the tower is high about the sky so high, files, and files of knowledge that its there, well, it's not. You're just going to have to trust the box. Well, I don't believe you yourself a hypocrite. In fact, I have proven you wrong as you soundly drift to sleep in thick do you lay there with beats in your heart like dogs that sing a little song, about wasps, sick sick man, you are lovely and why do you plant is sleeping too and slowly withers, water falling from your teeth and singing slowly biting my legs. It was red like the slowly pushes beyond the pages so far it becomes baths until I was clean you said I was dark feelings away. I'm so glad they're gone now yous with rubbish how could you treat them great, you are stupid. You are happy. You are sad. You are hammer and that poor person is still down, mental, face, why do these seem?
The end result, very very surreal. There are some parts of this piece I really like.. I will continue to ponder my storyboard/script. :)
