Cut-Up Creations


This week in our first workshop of the New Year, we got out the glue and scissors in a flashback to primary school art lessons, and made some cut-up poetry.

Far from being a lazy or un-creative way of making poetry, cut-up and blackout poems require careful thought in choosing and arranging words and phrases not only to make some sort of grammatical sense, but also to carry poetic images that are thought provoking.

We were really happy and impressed with this weeks creations, with everything from comments on climate change, depression and relationships, to some very succinct and outrageous rap-lyric-esque contributions from our Vice President… (ahem…)

Below are photographs of the poems, along with transcriptions. Isn’t it interesting how the typeface, colours, and sizes of the words can affect how you read the poems, and how the lack of usual punctuation can create interesting ambiguities and multiple possible readings?

Who’d have thought poison pen letters could be so profound…



Poem 1

Searching for:
crazy-ish wild
Scatter time well little beauties
free the choice
think light when the winter…
damage going visibly,
if only…
crafted paradox
don’t explain… discover


Poem 2

Rain slashing against walls
all tired wet cold hungry
tempers fray.
To run nearly succeeds
everyone malfunctioning
works, my brain doesn’t.
Effort condescending
suddenly this day new crown
I’ve begun battling
have been more comfortable.
What the hell are we doing to ourselves?
The answer is quite simple.

Poem 3

Brooding scenery. GRAND TOUR!
leading EVENT beginning!
It’s gone quiet…

(By Heather)



“The positivity of the long white cloud”
extraordinary trips with extraordinary people,
distant journeys become difficult,
someone familiar doesn’t behave,
stargazing in deep water.
Quick! Telegraph the plan!
Sail through the week,
(tackling in reverse)
from friendly free pitfalls.
Tiny dancers and big finales
from only a shot of colour.
Easy to control,
a new problem flies
from secret puzzles to the cruel disaster…
the death of a special book
(the one that made you cry)
and if it matters to you?


Unexpected skies
a sparkle in heaven.
It’s sooner in my dreams

We explore the amazing and beautiful spectacle

They’re invisible
we’ve left again.
You needn’t hurl against its

(By Maura)



He studies his cold vanilla personality, routinely
I love his demands of only tears and his sparse charisma
I would be flattered he should answer,
I assumed someone decides you are better suited unfurled
it suggests that first taste of beige love, typically gripping a lost illusion
I left promptly for attention to replace you
I don’t think this is the right way either.

What turns me on
The peace, no
Lionel Richie music

(By James)



Travel the dark river
of riches
This is a message from your undiscovered passion
and my undiscovered art
The King wasn’t sure about Baroque
Let’s talk of the theatre of luck
and of the demise of
the most unique and ancient garden…
The world


people who knew
of the person that I had received
between the cracks
maddeningly elusive,
a legend became notorious
A bright villain emerges – wild
admired and despised
The reason his story produced no art
isn’t to be forgotten.
rumour was tainted by the tiniest lives.
he set through the veils
of history’s fire
and seemed destined
to work
paid in death
to see her, in life.
But I have described candidly
something of a boy
who left no legacy
and was fabled.

(By Rachel)



How you defeat time
go bigger do more
the best you can
mania free
go on


The geek who predicted
Your choice
too small
that we scatter a few

(By Zahne)



Do you always feel slightly sad?
That’s the disease
pull up a chair…
I’ve found the secret
the only definition you’ll ever need
live a fuller life
push the boat out
change your life
help your loved ones
eat a rainbow
own more time in bed
I sort of briefly went up in flames
He wept a few times

You slide easily
Any doubts are dispelled
I’m not alone
The warmth takes over

(By Stefan)



David Cameron
smog levels
Oil price
CO2 emissions
“bedroom tax”
terrorist attack

(Hayley C)



The future abandoned forgot?
A gray glorious gloom
suffocating sweaty furnace
recycling bright history
star dreamers
dance heads up



like Nemo
it is the colour of a smile
or if passion is a flavour
it might seem like a fresh morning
with the warmest fire
like a cold, blue day
can be a particularly exciting adventure



Feeling down


relationships shouldn’t be
out of the shadows of last night’s
shaking fury
show me
your booty


(By Hayley R)

Strangers of Your Future

IMG Source:
IMG Source:

Then – fair-sized tubs of it too – thought the further I went, the further I wouldn’t. They were selling paints in Poundland back with more freedom even than I have now living with you and what colour to paint still thinks that if I walk far enough, had to wear glasses, to stop the headaches. Years between being twelve and seventeen. The worst appears as a trap. Having a whole day freedom is relative. Once you have too much camp and drink and they were happy with years; the best years. I had friends that a drunken haze. This was back when I sleepless nights and suicidal thoughts. I try to can see every colour. You can see fragments wait for me. It isn’t the same as I’m writing this from the little nook under I came home. He brandished my phone and at old photographs. See, there’s me with the I don’t feel wild. I am unemployed, of joyful. I snap the glowstick between my teeth, from the rave I’ve just been at. I the willow tree by the river. I’ve had something like that blasting out the window; the I’m glad I haven’t moved away. There was give off when your mood fits the dream. Would do what I wanted them to. I cool night air to rush on my face I wanted my mum to paint my room a time when all I wanted was to to go on holiday, whether to have people me. They took me into their tents and a dark abyss where all you can see a good thing, it’s like staring down into be calm and write things down. I look black. I said I’d do it if she when I was in my dad’s car, coming washing the car for that old lady down That was before the optician told me I You can see the person you will marry; My vision still goes fuzzy when I take told them we were going hiking and would protest or object. I told him I didn’t as an adult. I always thought that growing floppy blonde fringe and the earnest blue eyes. Only happy when I’m walking along out into like it’s Christmas again – getting that warm, need a phone. I was part of the the village lights on the journey home that course. A year at college only taught me back from the town with a boot-full of who will kiss you with more passion than we did things I wouldn’t do now. Funny, and I could save up my lunch money crawl down to the river, and release the its 500 missed calls. I wasn’t going to it be love, goals, or suicide? Will there neon fluid into the sparkling stream. If I up meant doing exactly what you want to how it was fun at the time. The glad that most of it is lost in what I didn’t want to do. Sometimes I car with the radio on, maybe U2 or hurts that I can’t see the glint of do. Deciding what to eat for dinner, where would get away. Dad shouted at me everytime life is a spiral towards one goal. Will like the raves, because they make you forget, week will be the exact same; that’s not kills me. I remember sitting in my dad’s of it, everything that once seemed free now satisfying feeling that some call love. But then the road. If you stare into blackness, you piercing it so the liquid oozes out. I at the bottom are the fiery hells of I see the tall spire rise up against shopping. It’s coming back broke and lonely. I and circulate the stench of my dad’s cigarette. I’m looking at the twinkling lights and feeling the walls. When I was seven years old, without her knowing, and said I earned it wilderness. He told me I was wild. Well, the horizon and I remember what lies in someone you’ve married; all just because they are the clouds. There’s a part of me that am poisoned with sorrow, than nature shall be you can see the parallel universe where your get out. I suppose it was those five this den since I was seven years old, it always leaves me unsatisfied, somehow. I am I’ll still get away. It’s the sight of be a future at all? The thing is, and there’s always the happy drugs available. Strangers of your future and the brilliant sheen they with nothing to do, knowing that the next window which I’ve opened because I like the rivers, or the mountain peeks piercing the cloud. Them off and look into the distance. I have a glowstick in my bag, remnant memories now to me are torture. I am paint, mostly imaginary animals or familiar landscapes, but.

(- Maria Sledmere; Cut-up via Lazarus Text Mixing Machine; Weekly prompt: glowsticks).

Preparing for the Cut Up


Following on from my earlier post about next week’s workshop, I thought I’d post some interesting links relating to cut-up poetry for you to try out to get into the spirit of things…