e r g e n c e

e r g e n c e
an exercise in collaboration
beginning january 2002

Rework images and shift the words around as you like. Simply download and rewurk! If you can't retrieve an image (some are used as backgrounds), email ergence and we'll send you the file.

Each of these images and texts will eventually lead through to information about the author and a URL via which you can link to the image/text in its 'original' context. From there you will be able to surf the responses that relate to that werd.

The werd you make need not relate to any 'original' context, though – feel free to make as many leaps as you like. [For more on werds and werdwurk follow this link.]

Tet on TV:
voiceless screams in black and white
and a funny little map
of dashes and dots.
"What's that, Mummy?"
Reality in the ________________ raw, baby doll.

It comes on after Playschool
and just before bed:
the commentary is quietly circumspect
about Agent Orange.
Waiting for the draft ballot
the grown-ups creep, in sneakers.

No-one in pre-school died.
No-one in pre-school went.
Just the odour of moral exhaustion with my Milo
washed down with corpses in the paddy-fields: ________________
four is such an impressionable age.

and they wonder why we like our cop shows fast
and hard -

it's nostalgia -

geniwate

RevEnfant

The day's evil ends, county of soft air and airport bars
where dog's hair slogs out the horoscope
                          floats atween logic
            nor the Other View

for-why he heng hys hed adoun to have
such sorwe and not be ded

Looking Around Wildly, don't be fooled where it ends
                  nor where the separations begin again, leaves
bending shadow reach out &
lose the waterways, dream pages of doubt and fertility

Doesn't look good, another 'beware the charms'
wave of mud, zip-drive
waiting for restart &
shafts of moonlight

as if there are two drives large as a man, hurtling and cursing
The Bullshit Artist
slips back to alterity & craving
the brilliant reply, tornados appraising
that was the open door! the poor love
            hidden for Years as she flies off
once or twice
before the killing sheds.

Peter Minter

Unhelmeted


                                                   With her mind

I dreamed the blue sky
                                           through an empty visor.
                        And without disguise
                                        I saw the shining face of childhood
                        and my tiny self,
                               framed,
              down the end of a gun-barrel ...
or was it an oval frame
        on a forgotten mantelpiece?
                        yes, I think it was ...
and I saw a child, older now, staring
           out of a fading family album,
with crazy blue-green eyes,
                       looking like she wanted to kill someone.
          And even after that,
                        I discovered an anonymous girl, on drugs,
               a wild bush-teenager slapping ripolin onto some old
scraps
                        of masonite,
             her gun hovering
      like a ghost ...

diane caney

m o r e