Imagine this:

A poet walks into a Parisian café carrying scissors and a stack of yesterday’s newspapers. He slices through headlines, obituaries, war reports, and weather blurbs, scattering words like tarot cards across the table. He isn’t interested in what was written, but what could be—what hidden messages lie in the shuffled fragments of culture’s cast-offs.

This poet is Brion Gysin, and the year is 1959.
His accomplice: William S. Burroughs—beat writer, literary outlaw, and master of subversion.

Together, they birthed the cut-up method:

“A page of text,” Burroughs said, “is like a street. You can cut it up, rearrange it, and walk it differently.”

The Cut-Up Method is part literary sabotage, part surrealist invocation. You take existing text—an article, a love letter, your grocery list—and slice it into phrases, sentences, or word clusters. Then you remix the fragments, rearranging them not to reconstruct meaning, but to rupture it. The result is strange, jagged, evocative. It speaks in riddles. It reveals what the conscious mind edits out.

This wasn’t just play—it was praxis. Burroughs used it to dismantle the “Control Machine” of language, the habitual scripts handed down by media, government, and culture. To cut up a sentence was to break free from linear thought. To remix was to resist.

“When you cut into the present,” he said, “the future leaks out.”

The method has roots in Dada, echoes of automatic writing, and shares spiritual DNA with hip-hop sampling, punk collage, and even AI text generation. It’s not about coherence—it’s about disruption. It’s about listening to the voice that speaks between the lines.

In your hands, this generator becomes a digital blade. Feed it scraps—blog drafts, dream journals, abandoned tweets—and let it spit back glitch-poetry, rogue manifestos, or prophetic fragments. You’re not just a writer now—you’re a remix artist, a literary alchemist, a channeler of the weird.

So cut it up. Shuffle the signal. Let the future leak out.