comically hungover spectrometers

The 14 Most Disgusting Leftovers Imaginable

The creamy rinse-out drips of soy milk cartons.
Gory feet mulled with sour wine and park bench excreta.
Gamey Australian rugby-player hushpuppies in parsnip sauce.
You, forever hovering, dressed in orange mutton shoulder 
and tuna wind-chime distributer jelly.
Common Housefly larvae cologne.
The cellos we used for ashtrays
while impassioned with mad perceptions.
Alfalfa sprouted from Churchill statements, 
served over kitten gender parts.
The five hands of flirtatiousness leaning on ultrafine animalcule offals.
All kinds of impregnated nastiness in gallons of cheetah sex.
English cornstarch creaking with archeology.
Simulacra of the contemporary novel, thickened and slowly poured 
over an eduction of imperialist ideology.
Quarantined metaphors ripe with nescience and prolusion,
coiled up with versified death in cattle cars for two years
or five trillion ethnic ruptures.
Subjectivity hormones stewed in Oedipal thematic baggage
and tossed with John Dos Passos universal fluidity.
Neck of goose, powerful and mythic, hung out to dry on
the underside of mother’s sewing table.

art by Karen Constance paintings and collage

The 14 Most Disgusting Leftovers Imaginable

The creamy rinse-out drips of soy milk cartons.
Gory feet mulled with sour wine and park bench excreta.
Gamey Australian rugby-player hushpuppies in parsnip sauce.
You, forever hovering, dressed in orange mutton shoulder
and tuna wind-chime distributer jelly.
Common Housefly larvae cologne.
The cellos we used for ashtrays
while impassioned with mad perceptions.
Alfalfa sprouted from Churchill statements,
served over kitten gender parts.
The five hands of flirtatiousness leaning on ultrafine animalcule offals.
All kinds of impregnated nastiness in gallons of cheetah sex.
English cornstarch creaking with archeology.
Simulacra of the contemporary novel, thickened and slowly poured
over an eduction of imperialist ideology.
Quarantined metaphors ripe with nescience and prolusion,
coiled up with versified death in cattle cars for two years
or five trillion ethnic ruptures.
Subjectivity hormones stewed in Oedipal thematic baggage
and tossed with John Dos Passos universal fluidity.
Neck of goose, powerful and mythic, hung out to dry on
the underside of mother’s sewing table.

art by Karen Constance paintings and collage

tuna wind-chime distributor jelly

Definition Of Dreaming Number 8

B.T. Joy

Water you look in at makes 
boys cry and girls masturbate. 
Bouts of impulsivity mean 
people won’t do anything 
unless they think it’s their idea. 
Some days a wing’s view is a worry. 
Behaviour. Self. How Poe 
fucking loved ravens. 
Nutella spread over a normal day. 
Canada baby, please don’t go 
to witches’ sabbaths in Paris. 
The spring is over 
and there are artists in East London
who don’t know they’re artists. 
Incorporeality is the lily’s body;
back to black in the wrong place and time. 
The little things always matter: 
riotous-tongued rainbow water, 
the pages within a food pic war, 
conversing in metaphors among stats and force. 
My fingers and teeth are already haunted.  
The mighty man-child has real 
dead human being’s hair.  
No need for weeping. 
The loneliest moment in someone’s life 
is when they’re watching 
intergalactic void ride white and naked
on a black lion’s back. 
A blissful bitch and a red-eyed bull.  
The raven’s song. How Poe 
fucking loved ravens.
The old gardener’s homestead. 
Captaining the attic 
with wet paint on your forehead 
and your long gone chill girl pants. 
How boys cry. 
How girls masturbate.
A landscape of rocks and sea. 
Re-deactivated atmosphere. 
Broken circadian language 
is a virus saturated with its own creation.  
Broken dreams are heavier than broken bones. 
Eggs for twenty, seven strawberries, six-word-stories. 
A venus crow. How Poe 
fucking loved ravens. 
The cry of a gull on the wind gently stirs. 
The lens focuses, defocuses. 
A diamond bullet and a gun made of gold. 
Despite the pain you’re still posting
your abstract photographic art.  

Method: ‘Definition Of Dreaming Number 8’was written using the notes left on my last poem to be featured with Uut Poetry: ‘Change Smashes Lows.’ Each line of the poem contains the name of one blogger who left a note and something taken from the very latest words/images/videos to be posted on their blog at the time of writing the poem. It’s a definition of dreaming composed of the preoccupations of Uut users.     

art by Karen Constance paintings and collage

Definition Of Dreaming Number 8

B.T. Joy

Water you look in at makes
boys cry and girls masturbate.
Bouts of impulsivity mean
people won’t do anything
unless they think it’s their idea.
Some days a wing’s view is a worry.
Behaviour. Self. How Poe
fucking loved ravens.
Nutella spread over a normal day.
Canada baby, please don’t go
to witches’ sabbaths in Paris.
The spring is over
and there are artists in East London
who don’t know they’re artists.
Incorporeality is the lily’s body;
back to black in the wrong place and time.
The little things always matter:
riotous-tongued rainbow water,
the pages within a food pic war,
conversing in metaphors among stats and force.
My fingers and teeth are already haunted.
The mighty man-child has real
dead human being’s hair.
No need for weeping.
The loneliest moment in someone’s life
is when they’re watching
intergalactic void ride white and naked
on a black lion’s back.
A blissful bitch and a red-eyed bull.
The raven’s song. How Poe
fucking loved ravens.
The old gardener’s homestead.
Captaining the attic
with wet paint on your forehead
and your long gone chill girl pants.
How boys cry.
How girls masturbate.
A landscape of rocks and sea.
Re-deactivated atmosphere.
Broken circadian language
is a virus saturated with its own creation.
Broken dreams are heavier than broken bones.
Eggs for twenty, seven strawberries, six-word-stories.
A venus crow. How Poe
fucking loved ravens.
The cry of a gull on the wind gently stirs.
The lens focuses, defocuses.
A diamond bullet and a gun made of gold.
Despite the pain you’re still posting
your abstract photographic art.

Method: ‘Definition Of Dreaming Number 8’was written using the notes left on my last poem to be featured with Uut Poetry: ‘Change Smashes Lows.’ Each line of the poem contains the name of one blogger who left a note and something taken from the very latest words/images/videos to be posted on their blog at the time of writing the poem. It’s a definition of dreaming composed of the preoccupations of Uut users.

art by Karen Constance paintings and collage

Art is a Facebook Status About Your Winter Break — Human Parts — Medium →

Art is a Facebook Status About Your Winter Break

I swear to every heaven ever imagined,
if I hear one more dead-eyed hipster
tell me that art is dead, I will personally summon Shakespeare
from the grave so he can tell them every reason
why he wishes he were born in a time where
he could have a damn Gmail account…

arrange past cronies/ with sandals

White People Wonder If He Knows He’s White. Black People Have Mixed Feelings. He Calls It Art.
Logan Ellis (unknowmenclature)
I’m flipping through the local newspaper appon my iPad Mini, and an old jokecomes to mind but i can’t remember the punchlinefor the life of me. For the life of me,
there is another life—a mixed spider hairline.
There’s nothing specialabout the way I feelchronologically; there are times when beingthe stray hair in the showercomes in handy (colored black, translucent, or “what if?”) and Iwish to be at the back of your throat.I want you to pull me from the back of your throator carry
me to your next breakfast, find mein the inverted mirrorof your spoon, where colorsdon’t mean a damneven when fogged andpressed to the nose.
I’m feeling a punsink in me like a weighted corpse; I’mfeeling the ingrates whodon’t thoroughly read an articlecriticize my pajama pants.
Eating a popular concept just meansswallowing whole a hollowed,kaleidoscopic heart; when porcelain facescry mascara tears, theambiguous linearity keeps us from wiping them away.
Hence, I proclaim that our paranoia as a nationhas become as wide as the 7 wonders of the worldand even less removable than ourappendixes. For every guywaiting behind a doorwearing a ski mask that stretchesinto his black shirt is another briefcase that’s ticking from the inside,that means (strictly) less than business.
art by Manu Duf

White People Wonder If He Knows He’s White. Black People Have Mixed Feelings. He Calls It Art.

Logan Ellis (unknowmenclature)

I’m flipping through the local newspaper app
on my iPad Mini, and an old joke
comes to mind but i can’t remember the punchline
for the life of me. For the life of me,

there is another life—
a mixed spider hairline.

There’s nothing special
about the way I feel
chronologically; there are times when being
the stray hair in the shower
comes in handy (colored 
black, translucent, or “what if?”) and I
wish to be at the back of your throat.
I want you to pull me from the back of your throat
or carry

me to your next breakfast, find me
in the inverted mirror
of your spoon, where colors
don’t mean a damn
even when fogged and
pressed to the nose.

I’m feeling a pun
sink in me like a weighted corpse; I’m
feeling the ingrates who
don’t thoroughly read an article
criticize my pajama pants.

Eating a popular concept just means
swallowing whole a hollowed,
kaleidoscopic heart; when porcelain faces
cry mascara tears, the
ambiguous linearity 
keeps us from wiping them away.

Hence, I proclaim that our paranoia as a nation
has become as wide as the 7 wonders of the world
and even less removable than our
appendixes. For every guy
waiting behind a door
wearing a ski mask that stretches
into his black shirt 
is another briefcase that’s ticking from the inside,
that means (strictly) less than business.

art by Manu Duf

Improve Each Shining Hour

Howie Good

The history that began
with a signed urinal
is extinguished
with rain disasters in India.
Somewhere I have
a souvenir postcard
from the gift shop
at Kafka’s birthplace.
Nostalgia just isn’t
what it used to be.
Earthquakes keep happening,
a series of lewd gestures
strung together
by the blind man,
splinters of ice today,
char and ash tomorrow,
with a flowered couch,
meanwhile, serving
conditionally as a haven,
and everybody
yelling Squish over!

art by franz falckenhaus

Improve Each Shining Hour

Howie Good

The history that began
with a signed urinal
is extinguished
with rain disasters in India.
Somewhere I have
a souvenir postcard
from the gift shop
at Kafka’s birthplace.
Nostalgia just isn’t
what it used to be.
Earthquakes keep happening,
a series of lewd gestures
strung together
by the blind man,
splinters of ice today,
char and ash tomorrow,
with a flowered couch,
meanwhile, serving
conditionally as a haven,
and everybody
yelling Squish over!

art by franz falckenhaus

suffer.home.legal

goodbyewhorses

1.

2007 ceiling fan shifts hot air on hairless faggot pinkness

naked only in the middle for to cover up quickly.

big white box fan to wash out frantic muffled dick sounds.

bounce off tall beige walls.

house has three floors.

two floors and only one underground.

three empty bedrooms.

my age is three times five and his is this minus one. heat rises.

third law of heterodynamics.

half clad fags in lab coats.

ask me why I don’t have a girlfriend.

2.

when someone knocks we rapidly re-belt and split.

once mom googled ‘lesbians’ spelled with a ‘g’ in it.

utah is a white privilege rectangle with the top right corner bitten out by wyoming.

oscar wilde gives a speech in salt lake city about homemaking and interior design.

organic oil makes latex condom rot.

leaves hard stains in unfinished wood at the tops of little ladder lofts in someone else’s parents’ house.

cumming in someone at the end of “almost famous.”

ask me why I don’t have a girlfriend.

3.

someone once won an award for inventing carbonated yogurt put in narrow plastic tubes.

the boy scouts share their patron saint with syphilitics.

desire.dangerously.oath

Amanda Pelletier

frankly i cannot forget the words

you said to me as we

floated on each other’s planks in the

Bird Sanctuary you said

you’d never gut me but as i

flopped around on the Earth you

knocked me down into the dirt to do me

it burned like ice

chapped knees knocking together

time moved at glacial speeds

i floated on your plank and sank

into an unenlightened underworld

filled with turtles and minnows and

muscle relaxers that paralyzed me into never

busting through the stone walls surrounding

The Clock Mansion used to tick and tock

like each blow to my sternum that knock

knock knocked me out cold

but when it burned up poor Lorraine it left a stain

on the land

shaped like a disillusioned cul-de-sac

filled with Joneses and Murphys

laws and regulations

dull swords cut deeper

as you drive yours into my miniature model

i always hope it hurt you even now

like stepping on Legos or thorns or

brown snow barefoot

frankly i cannot forget the words

you didn’t have to say as i floated above our planks

being devoured like a fish filet

threats and oohs and aahs and

growls

from you, a no longer nocturnal

raccoon

bent on tearing through me

your trash can

9 Recent Technological Advances

Dale Wisely

Barn Owl Scanning and Encoding Fluid
Sacrament of Retrofitting 
Pets with Collapsed Wave Functions
Rocket to Mars (and Back)
Post-coital Algorithms
Silicon Nothingness (with Third Party Plug-Ins)
CryoPoetry
Flat-Screen Citrus 
Software for Understanding November

Dale Wisely thinks a good bit about things to come. All of these are coming and you know it.

37 Things You Can’t Say on Capitol Hill

gobblette:

How many-peopled is the girl who once sat so solitary!

Humming “I Feel Free”, she runs from Fairfax to Vienna and catches the metro of liberation from singular overthought obsessions.

A double rainbow (as seen on YouTube) she beholds and stays up way too late, again, until her fingers are covered in hot wax from both ends.

Oh how the mills have fallen! I grieve for you,  Youngstown my father, but your love did not surpass my need for life and I now have a stepfatherdistrict. One day someone shall remove your belt, but not I. Not I.

The Call Center

There is nothing spooky or exuberant to report. I have become 
a call center with nothing to say. I have your library book, 
will return it later. The temperature outside is rising. 
Infant-children walk up and down the hall outside my door
holding the hands of adults. They look inside me, where weasels 
are spawning under a blue moon, where I dream sometimes 
about going to NYC clubs without appropriately stylish clothing 
and borrowing my sister-in-law’s ex-husband’s shirt. She ties a sash 
about my waist as says she’ll “explain later,” and then we go in. 
People are always checking on me—on everyone. Checking on what?
Is there something amiss? Unmeet? Gauche? If you look 
you can see the public, the morals, the language—all of it 
has gusto! We need to keep whatever it is going, strapped down tight,
wired and charged with the best imagination has to offer.
And so I say to you, Muriel Rukeyser, wave your madness with me
from masts of opaque light. Come with us through canals
of unhappy women and statistics. A solution to everything 
somewhere exists. And someone we know doesn’t like its looks.

art by Michael Tunk

The Call Center

There is nothing spooky or exuberant to report. I have become
a call center with nothing to say. I have your library book,
will return it later. The temperature outside is rising.
Infant-children walk up and down the hall outside my door
holding the hands of adults. They look inside me, where weasels
are spawning under a blue moon, where I dream sometimes
about going to NYC clubs without appropriately stylish clothing
and borrowing my sister-in-law’s ex-husband’s shirt. She ties a sash
about my waist as says she’ll “explain later,” and then we go in.
People are always checking on me—on everyone. Checking on what?
Is there something amiss? Unmeet? Gauche? If you look
you can see the public, the morals, the language—all of it
has gusto! We need to keep whatever it is going, strapped down tight,
wired and charged with the best imagination has to offer.
And so I say to you, Muriel Rukeyser, wave your madness with me
from masts of opaque light. Come with us through canals
of unhappy women and statistics. A solution to everything
somewhere exists. And someone we know doesn’t like its looks.

art by Michael Tunk

orphic candidate polishing

undisputed repetition hats