Here's another of my collages. The only rule is that I have to work entirely from memory:


Ah, que la chair est triste, et j'ai lu tous les livres! Fuir, la-bàs fuir, when over the flowery sharp pasture's edge, unseen, the salt ocean lifts its form, chicory and daisies, tied, released, seem hardly flowers alone, but color, and the shape perhaps, of restlessness, whereas the sea is circled and sways peacefully upon its plantlike stem. It don't mean a thing if it ain't got that swing, dah dah dah dah, dah dah dah dah, dah dah dah dah daaaah. It don't mean a thing if it ain't got that abstract weightlessness like a rock, missing your head, barely, like sardines on a bed: who put them there and why? When to the sessions of sweet silent thought, I summon up remembrance of things past, and suddenly, I saw you standing there. Who'd have thought that snow falls. It always circled, whirling like a thought in glass bowl around me and my bear. Then it was beautiful containment. Snow whirled, nothing every fell. Nature's first green is gold. Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf's a flower, but only so an hour. As I sd to my friend because I am always talking, John, I sd, which was not his name, the darkness surrounds us, music when soft voices die, vibrates in the memory. Yo sé un himno gigante y extraño que anuncia en la noche del alma una aurora. T estas páginas son de ese himno cadencias que el aire dilata en las sombras. La luna vino a la fragua con su polizón de nardos. In the back yard of the hospital where nothing will grow, there's a certain slant of light, winter afternoon, that oppresses, like the weight of cathedral tunes. Never again would the bird's song be the same, and to do that to birds was why she came. I get no kick from champaigne. Mere alcohol doesn't thrill me at all, so tell me why it should be true, that I get a kick out of you? I get a thrill every time I see you standing there before me. The way you wear your hat, the way you sip your tea, the memory of all that, no, no, they can't take that away from me. Hit the road, Jack and never come back no more no more no more no more. She being brand new. I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix. Ah sunflower, weary of time, who countest the steps of the sun, seeking after that sweet golden clime where the traveler's journey is done. Sweep, sweep, sweep! Break, break, break. I fall upon the thorns of life, I bleed. I am, but what I am none knows or cares, silent, upon a peak in Darien. Orpheus liked the glad, personal quality of the things beneath the sky. Euridice was a part of all of this. There I could never be a boy. All things are tragic when a mother watches.