I had a manic friend in college who later became a Emmy-winning television writer. One night over a quarter century ago, he stayed up about 24 hours straight doing nothing but writing, completely free form, some of it prose, some structured rhyme, some of it dialogue with stage directions. He pinned it to his dorm walls like it was wallpaper for a week, then we took it out to the field and burned it. The surviving paper that didn't burn made up bizarre strings of words that sounded much like this, which he retyped and called it poetry. It totally worked.