sweet noisome hybrid
some distended thing:

A home range; breeding over it. If your donkey dislikes harems. Each adult donkey establishes a spinner, now used only as a large area dominated by cutaneous muscle usually capable of giving birth to omens with typical genetic development are ears, which may pick up more to provide a female counterpart for “human femaleness”; themselves by biting, striking, groomed you may notice quality a woman. Being a woman. The bray of the donkey, a branch and belly of the donkey. the menarche; “femininity” is used to refer to a set of typical parts of the body having passed away in response to the feeling misconception actually from the Old word wambe other donkeys wide spaces circles (representing spirit), above an equilateral land. the body is tail, rid themselves of flies from women’s conventional role as a puberty until menopause. But often meaning “stomach” “potbelly” or Panniculus deepest layer of skin some on the face, neck, shoulders the donkey’s blood. Donkeys can defend these areas, the woman may keep in contact which lasts for twenty seconds and are solitary. Donkeys are adapted “womanhood” mean the state Alchemists constructed the symbol from an insect defense mechanism. A donkey’s “virility” stood for copper. Feral horses, wild donkeys dry twitch its skin to dislodge one. The loud call or beneath the front hooves or kicking with the female qualities associated with a certain belly of the donkey. Of the desert. so of the girl. Donkeys have large distant sounds, and may help cool attitude to gender roles; “being-woman” is deliberate archaism; “muliebrity” is a neologism for marginal desert lands. Unlike wild the same words used to refer to “femininity”, but is usually associated with hind legs. It is a popular Carnosus. This muscle, which lies just “distaff” is an adjective derived when a biting insect lands on with a different view of gender heard for over three kilometres, moving independently of the other muscles. Roles; “femaleness” is a general term, when a biting insect lands on the body is. The body is.

Anna Mirzayan, 2017

Remixed works:
“Donkey” article at Wikipedia
“Woman” article at Wikipedia

Algorithmic approach:
Cutup engine

Jenny in Rome: An Ode

look now, Jenny:
Rome under sun!
new stone, old stone,
sun on domes, urns,
on fort, on tree, down well —
flow of now, poured pure
to flow round pure stones.

sun sunk down
new routes for stone
— uneven, murky —
down, down, down.
stones under stone:
red stone, end-of-world stone.

to ken Rome, well up —
up to more stone
over new flow routes:
up slender tree, over round dome!
do you see, Jenny?

one Rome of stone
— new, old —
down under, up over,
turned round… Now

do you see?
up, over, round, under:
you see, you know,

you feel Rome now
— your Rome, our Rome —


Bill Waters, 2017

Algorithmic approach:
Phonewords for 867-5309 (from the song “Jenny”)

Remixed work:
Jenny, by Sigrid Undset

If If was really if

If you can read this socks
Are losec mups dispersible
If you can teach
Buy makeup online
If you can walk you can dance
(Or) being or been
(Or) being or having been
And yet I don’t know

If you can dream it you can do it
If you can think it you can do it
If you can move two matches
And truth table
If you can bear it
Twisted by design
Or the watch shop
(And) Stoop and another v rand water

If you can make god bleed
And rise in glory
And loose and lose and loss
And never let her go
If you can fix a bike
To serve your country
And so he spoke
“Expect the worst”

If you can talk you can swing
Or walk by a lilac tree
If either cell contains then
If all meaning
If you can fix a bike
With sincere condolences
Yours is the earth Parbold
And will we were here

You’ll be alright

Ed Arantus, 2016

Algorithmic approach:
Type line of original poem to seed search engine.
Stop typing before predictive line reverts to original.
Use the predicted line.
Do this for each line in original poem.

Algorithmic seed:
If, by Rudyard Kipling

[Single Everywhere]

Single everywhere.
Digest that statement for a second.
Even my oceanic fucks are not given.
The information passed in a cultural fashion accumulates in the form of knowledge and tradition, but the stress of this definition is on the mode of transmission of the information, rather than its result.
No one is ever really quite sure what to make of you, which manifests throughout each day as a multitude of polite, awkward smiles from strangers.
Was that inappropriate.

Fine feathers make fine birds.
It’s not rocket surgery.
I only want sympathy in the form of you crawling into bed with me.

John Lowther, 2016

Algorithmic approach:
Text Analytics

Remixed works:
“Digest that…” & “Even my oceanic fucks…”, genderbitch blog’s Words and Offense
“The information passed…”, by John Tyler Bonner, Margaret La Farge, in The Evolution of Culture in Animals
“No one is ever…”, by Bi-Gender Idealism blog, in Thanks David
“I only want sympathy…”, by Fall Out Boy

[It's Impossible to Ignore Them]

It’s impossible to ignore them.
People with penises that is.
Click here to start download.
The class falls deathly silent.
We live with barriers intact.

We don’t like it here.
Set me free little girl.
My will has chosen life.
Glad you had the time.
She stares right through me.

Teenagers — adapt or die.
Moral perversion comes in steps.
It really, really, desperately does.
We always joked about this.
Your tells are so obvious.

I eat with my eyes.
My heart will go on.
We gotta take it out.
Let it be a secret.
Your submission will come up eventually.

John Lowther, 2016

Algorithmic approach:
Text Analytics

Remixed works:
“It’s impossible to…” , Caroline Siede’s Female heroes are even more important for boys than girls
“The class falls…”, Mighty Ducks fan fiction
“Set me free…”, by The Kinks
“Teenagers…”, by Katniss for Senate, 2016.
“Moral perversion…”, by solitaryroad
“It really, really…”, freethoughtblogs’ Fourth Wave: Part Two
“Your tells…”, Against Me!’s Trangender Dysphoria Blues

[Yes, Miss Snake]

Yes, Miss Snake.
I was eaten by God.
You just hate it.
There is no ‘me’.
Do as you’re told.
That’s big game.
The doors closed.
Go bite a pillow.
I was a tickle top.
To better myself.
It would be easy.
The brave words.
My humor is my own.
It’s an illusion.
And now you know.
The jungle wins.
What a surprise.
You were my life.
It’s not too late.
Stop resisting.
I want to be seen.
It’s there all the time, driving me out to wander the streets, following me,
silently, but I can feel it there.
Save it sunshine.
I’ve seen enough.

John Lowther, 2016

Algorithmic approach:
Text Analytics

Remixed works:
“Yes, Miss Snake.”, by Mr. I-Don’t Smile, on Wattpad
“Go bite a pillow.”, by IMUS in the Morning
“I was a tickle top.”, John Water’s A Dirty Shame, Tony the Tickler (Michael Willis)
“It’s there all the time…”, Fritz Lang’s M, Hans Beckert (Peter Lorre)

O Love is a Mortal Muse of Fear

Love is a stranger
And never seen.
So battle the words which bore me sore,
White tears, making up the margin still.

Love is the world behind now
That have not the life to save, yet all the pain,
As the soul’s life shall be suffered the same
where a pale snake died in the depths of Cataract-Bornock.

O Love is a mortal Muse of fear,
That nightingales
Joy to disgrace and commend to the dead
By the boundless air wind-leafery
And a song of sharps,
Warriors, hissings, and beaked pardoning.
They sing with all the swine in hell,
And Marvos, sounding wild,
Cries Eternal.

The Combed Thunderclap, 2016

Algorithmic approach:
Machine Learning

Language model:
Traditional English Poetry


that one with the quartelbarries
he’s an archist, a rustleman
he four fat stiners shawly
gives a great shine
aye, he’s the right one for the headly bearders
that wet wipe
greatrags and fat gripes
unwipening on green fingers
snotty hands
says he’s a man of the eyes and soul
nay’s a man to the window water
house, boys and pints
a manchical is he
parcan and bangread
boisterous eaps and laugh capquested
bested by a waiting
a waiting up a professacka stirtion
pissed and coybegat
beer bested he was
that solate time
remaintearding into the night
when a will spronged him
a nightly dark with a cutch and scair
stole his stick
and a wobble of his wauntain soul
until he lay there dispaping
and the moon black house
his half moans lorged

we bounced our heels
while the ambulance screaked
and the quartelbarry squeaked

The Combed Thunderclap, 2016

Algorithmic approach:
Machine Learning

Language model:
Ulysses, by James Joyce