Scott Bratcher, longtime contributor to Uut Poetry, has published an book, The World that Wasn’t There: Surreal and Experimental Poetry (2011-2014). It’s available on Smashwords as well as Amazon. Congrats to Scott. Show your support by spreading the word and adding his fine work to your surrealist collection.
The World That Wasn’t There: Surreal and Experimental Poetry (2011-2014) [W. Scott Bratcher] on Amazon.com. *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. This book is a collection of original works of poetry and prose that was written when the author had resumed writing over a decade after he published some poetry and fiction at the end of his years at a Midwestern university where he studied and received a degree in English. This collection comprises forms he had begun to explore that are and have been a subject of great interest: the world of surreal and experimental poetry. Many of these poems have been published within the last year by UUT Poetry
Inside the unit/ storage these black roses,
one at a time breaking the heart of tenderness
while Russia fails to comprehend the poets
without words/ ducking in tool shops,
jiving the sky & making their own dark rye.
I went into the dictionary, to blindly pick words, as indeed from a hat. If one word logically follows another in this piece, it came down as an accident before the cause.
Doug Draime’s most recent book is More Than The Alley, released in 2012 by Interior Noise Press. Also author of seventeen chapbooks. A presence in the ‘underground’ literary movement since the late 1960’s. Awarded small PEN grants in 1987, 1991, and 1992. In the last few years he’s been nominated for several Pushcart Prizes.
Stop me if I’m boring you, but each of them feels oddly poetic, in its ability to smear or stifle. It was icky, and I picked that crap out of my hair for a week afterward. It has a pressure sensitive bottom so be careful when you set it down. I keep a text file open so that it will seem like some work is going on. Pervasive unsatisfactoriness seems more the issue.
In the middle of the night, the spiders crept out from the attic and went back to the living room. Time for the umbrella.
Witnessing other couples slow crotch grinding at sad indie gigs
makes the lights strobe brighter and the air smell of gardenias.
There’s a term for this:
Long train rides home listening to music like an inner monologue,
hearing the inner monologue like a movement of music.
Why do all the shapes in certain darknesses
appear to be a woman’s arms?
I’ve come to the conclusion that my repetitive failure in love
has something to do with my inability
to be violent in public.
Dogs with two owners snout in the wet parks after snow,
the buildings go on climbing over Wollman Rink
and absolutely no one believes you
when you say you’re happier alone.
A father of daughters looks at me indifferently.
I grow an inch of wiry beard and think in questions I can’t ask.
The Lovejoy comet continues on its suicidal rounds.
Groceries are so expensive in Manhattan
and the rain doglegs like irony.
Though I love to see the steam rising from the grates
or hear a horn like a brief stone on deep water.
San Francisco is just an idea
formed in a 3am noodle shop in the thick of the Bowery
in the sexually repressed bear-fear and pure-land pining
of a thirty-year-old chartered accountant.
It just goes to prove that even the lead beater turns,
eyes upward, and dreams in gold.
If I say only one thing that carries, let it be this:
Not all mental illness manifests
I’ve just realised I’ve been insane for years
but I love you.
I promise that I think it.
I promise that it might be true.
Hi there. I've been working a lot from your prompts and I'm planning on submitting a few pieces to your blog. However, I would also like to submit some to a few other journals. If I submit, say, an octave to another journal, would you prefer if I included an "After Brooks Lampe" under the title?
Not necessarily. I don’t expect credit for prompts for non- or low-radar publications. If you’re up to something more serious, I’d love a shout-out, but it can be informal.
What I do ask is that you send me links to the stuff once it’s up so I can promote your work and keep a record of where these prompts pop up.
I’d suck anything for a pizza right now. There is a silence where no sound may be. It is more dangerous for a truth when a poet agrees with it than when he contradicts it. An intellectual is a person who has discovered something more interesting than sex. Blue lemonade allies with the Pope to destroy the universe. The new social movements never opposed capitalism proper. We are all whores. It can’t hurt you. Pleasure only starts once the worm has got into the fruit, to become delightful happiness must be tainted with poison.
Note on the Text: f: (Rage + Database ÷ Shakespeare ± Fuckery) → ≈ (¬ Expectation, ⊧ Poetry) — If that’s not clear, you can find out more about how these sonnets are assembled, read others , and more: 555.
I will drink up your sun,
So untimely, genocidal and flat;
Call it Aurelia
But it’s not much of an August
Land where we run on our hands
Through field mines and so much
Laughter that I choke on you
But no, no, it’s not much in August,
The air, possibility, and the
Pleasure of suicidal thoughts,
Too wide for our guts and the
Flower pot I give you constantly, but it
Is always five to something
And the sea is always coming back.
You get both killed and alibi out
Your murderer which is either
Your or my fear to bury
This, so hot,
So exquisitely hot