Uut Poetry

Uut Poetry

Uut (n.): an infectious strain of contemporary American surrealism; a practitioner of Uut poetics; a cloven-hoofed quadruped with nautical antlers.

More about Uut.

blazing gadgets impress

Word Rummager

compressed sand wired for tensile strength
stretches time
to elasticine proportions.
cerulean eerily superimposes
Civil War ghosts
onto Cracker Jack stickers amid the jolly nuts.
 
when hard water spots etch rain onto skin
we’re branded
banded
like egrets tagged by ecologists for study
 
combustible hands jerk the keys
beyond compare
recalling ancient dances of elements.
with singed eyebrows
and soaked pelts over feet
tinkers toss the bone until it’s dusty art.

infinitesplinters:

Zoo Club FeesShine the loop to dewey flats,sureness is a Moorish tavern cuspof undone time. Fry to December,scalding lewd crime. Lie and helpthe hunt to see a suture for fool’s dustaboard a palatial request to air the air.Eyes tilling long to grieve what heightsour body clings to. I really haunt the shown,a leaping dune, keep it right to my needflood, seed her mind’s Xanadu: a bonafideconjugal what the water’s claw snaps to form.If twas were the brine on the road, scapegoat knees, lolling along the breeze, I would find a disco of nectar spliced into a spoken dream. If I snubbed your bee brainseizing the world, it’s an uncontrollable scene to relieve and relive all the colors that were not torrid ever-lives. They saying day onthe bough-to-bough, patchy tongue, crying dawn visceral fits to loungeand crown a caffeine key our grape,zoo club fees.Art by Hugo BarrosSeed Text: Comfy in Nautica, Panda Bear; Taste, Animal Collective; Swing Tree, DiscoveryProject: Automatic Listening

infinitesplinters:

Zoo Club Fees

Shine the loop to dewey flats,
sureness is a Moorish tavern cusp
of undone time. Fry to December,
scalding lewd crime. Lie and help
the hunt to see a suture for fool’s dust
aboard a palatial request to air the air.

Eyes tilling long to grieve what heights
our body clings to. I really haunt the shown,
a leaping dune, keep it right to my need
flood, seed her mind’s Xanadu: a bonafide
conjugal what the water’s claw snaps to form.

If twas were the brine on the road, 
scapegoat knees, lolling along the breeze, 
I would find a disco of nectar spliced into 
a spoken dream. If I snubbed your bee brain
seizing the world, it’s an uncontrollable scene 
to relieve and relive all the colors that were 
not torrid ever-lives. They saying day on
the bough-to-bough, patchy tongue, 
crying dawn visceral fits to lounge
and crown a caffeine key our grape,
zoo club fees.

Art by Hugo Barros
Seed Text: Comfy in Nautica, Panda Bear; Taste, Animal Collective; Swing Tree, Discovery

Project: Automatic Listening

Some Float Off on Chocolate Bars and Some on Drink

What you might say at that moment is
“John was pinched at certain times.”

What the five policemen might say is
“You with sea water running
in your veins sit down in water.”

Nestled up against the rain, road signs
and pawn shops become
boats in my country,
a posse of poets,
an Easter cake.

Nestled up against breakfast with kinfolk
borrowed money becomes
licorice in the middle of Edinburgh,
a spell about Richmond.

The chain of blue monkeys is vivid and strong
until it arrives at black sands.
After all, one can’t be happy all the time.
Lists of things go on forever.
One must sit down in them and sing

in a bathtub, with flowers
and the prickly pear.

seed text: Collected Works, by Lorine Niedecker
art by Collage al Infinito

Some Float Off on Chocolate Bars and Some on Drink

What you might say at that moment is
“John was pinched at certain times.”

What the five policemen might say is
“You with sea water running
in your veins sit down in water.”

Nestled up against the rain, road signs
and pawn shops become
boats in my country,
a posse of poets,
an Easter cake.

Nestled up against breakfast with kinfolk
borrowed money becomes
licorice in the middle of Edinburgh,
a spell about Richmond.

The chain of blue monkeys is vivid and strong
until it arrives at black sands.
After all, one can’t be happy all the time.
Lists of things go on forever.
One must sit down in them and sing

in a bathtub, with flowers
and the prickly pear.

seed text: Collected Works, by Lorine Niedecker
art by Collage al Infinito

Blood of the Gorgon

Wade German

From the erogenous zones of invisible creatures
on this day without even the slightest need of astrolabes 
or any cultured organ donors to speak of
at sunrise a spider slipped on a barrier of space-time 
and by globules composed of thin green webs
snared itself on the moon
reflected in the puddles of hemoglobin
and at the bottom of wells those open tongueless mouths
with dark stones like decaying teeth
in a hidden valley 
where the gorgon crawls from her dreams in a dreamless cave
gorging herself on tombstones
as blood pours out from a factory of shame
under which lies a vast cellar holding the crypts of prophets 
with ecstatic grimaces on their skulls 
and clutching rotted icons 
as the structure sinks in the desert among white cacti
where an old sorcerer searches for love
and blue-yellow trilobites still beat with sledgehammers of desire
sirens wail for a hundred suicides
which on closer examination were political assassinations
for the humanoid block of soapstone 
stumbling through the pale bioluminescence 
it looms and laughs like an idiot
while vampiric leaves float from the trees and swirl in pleasurable circles 
in the wine of death
on samples of fresh-tilled earth 
on the monument to the shadow of the sun.

art by raintree1969

Blood of the Gorgon

Wade German

From the erogenous zones of invisible creatures
on this day without even the slightest need of astrolabes
or any cultured organ donors to speak of
at sunrise a spider slipped on a barrier of space-time
and by globules composed of thin green webs
snared itself on the moon
reflected in the puddles of hemoglobin
and at the bottom of wells those open tongueless mouths
with dark stones like decaying teeth
in a hidden valley
where the gorgon crawls from her dreams in a dreamless cave
gorging herself on tombstones
as blood pours out from a factory of shame
under which lies a vast cellar holding the crypts of prophets
with ecstatic grimaces on their skulls
and clutching rotted icons
as the structure sinks in the desert among white cacti
where an old sorcerer searches for love
and blue-yellow trilobites still beat with sledgehammers of desire
sirens wail for a hundred suicides
which on closer examination were political assassinations
for the humanoid block of soapstone
stumbling through the pale bioluminescence
it looms and laughs like an idiot
while vampiric leaves float from the trees and swirl in pleasurable circles
in the wine of death
on samples of fresh-tilled earth
on the monument to the shadow of the sun.

art by raintree1969

Load more posts