The following text––I don’t think I can call it poetry––is the result of combining several articles through the Lazarus Corporation’s Text Mixing Desk. The texts used were: a random essay from the Postmodern Essay Generator, The Book of Revelation (King James version) and the livejournal of a teenage girl.

Randomly-generating nonsense sometimes creates happy accidents, sometimes chance wisdom, sometimes banality. I have tried to keep the former two and cut the latter. Verb tenses and noun declensions have also been changed to make the text make more sense. I do not know why most sentences begin with a lower-case letter but I have left them as they are.

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last night I went there to fell a great star. all who were really passionate wer burnt up, and all great lights from heaven burned to worship before thy feet, and to know filled me with fire. I cried with a loud voice, me, saying, amen: blessing, and glory, narrative to attack capitalism, hurt the earth and the need a cigarette every five marx suggests a blind kind of rainbow clothed with a cloud.

and I saw the seven boots learning how to scream, and fire was capitalist postcultural scorpions, and there twisted up in mine you were born with the opened seventh seal. there was silence in heaven.

and he opened the bottomless forever to university because apparantly I belong there and if that’s ‘textual nihilism’ to denote the dialectic, knew I would be a darkened earthquake.

the subject is the the four angels which are bound in the city, and I up.

Semioticist discourse. in a sense, the subject is his room during guided by voices:  of god, and the seven stars; I know thy works, that thou suggests the use of the postdialectic paradigm of reality to world, to try them that dwell upon the earth.
after this thou hast kept the word of my patience, I also will keep thee in the works of rushdie, a concept voice which I heard as it were a trumpet talking with art as a paradox.

Behold, I will make them like mike whittaker that dwell upon the earth. I know thy works, and hast found them liars: and unto the seven spirits of god, and parties and finally a shot and a half, he that sat was to rescue me from a bad trip, unto the angel of the glitter off my breasts and honestly I pretextual theory.

I saw four angels smoking at second period when plunged into chaos because of the stinkbombs and everyone mingled with blood, and they were cast upon the post-structuralist perceptions of class.

and the third angel sounded, and subject is interpolated into a lacanist obscurity class. I beheld, and heard the fifth angel scream out all the lyrics from the east, having the seal of the living heaven, so consequently I don’t know all which stood before god; I am still the angry ten year old girl in patent leather pentagrams.

and he opened the bottomless forever glued to my feet and I will be amazing, and unto the angel of the church in shall thrash metal sweaty dance parties and us to god and are not, but do lie; the shapes of the submaterialist paradigm of consensus killed, by the fire, and by that I sat doing my laundry and listening to stan getz and bottomless pit.

so I have friends we’re the best seven spirits of god, and the seven stars; I as theory that includes best couple ever, even door was opened in heaven: and I will shew thee things which must finally a reign on the earth. and I saw expensive tequila in his room and behold: we’re seriously as shit from serpents. and they sung a new song, saying, thou art denying marxist socialism, rejoice! for the name of the star is called lower east side so I can fuck servants of worship devils, and idols of gold, and silver; and a satanic ballerina had hair as the hair of women, and fire mingled with blood, and became a textual narrative to analyse and modify the sexual teenybopper paradigm of capitalist acoustic songs. I almost seek death, and shall not find it; and I saw the seven boots learning how to scream but I’m finally sleeping; and I’m going to write lions.

and thank you for caring about sea, I hate school. foucaultist smoking in school (I know you will and power, and might, be unto our god for either accept posttextual marxism that rejoice!

and the honour, and power, and might, be unto our god and myself for ever that I am sydney heather motherfucking sasanow and main tongue hath my name.

I’m going to make everything erupted into chaos behold, there come two woes more hereafter.

haha you thought I almost cried.

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