Uut Poetry

Jul 29

rethunk / as black cardamom

Jul 27

The Deuteronomy of Unbudded Rose Shoulders
Logan Ellis (unknowmenclature)
Grinding how muchthe visceral climb of atrophyfrom jaw to lower lipand back around the carousel?
Exactly how long have you been told that emptiness eats through the face?I’m beginningto feel my head caveand stutter like the sorrowfully revved enginesof all the cars we’ve seen parkedon the side of the highwayfor too long, ora childhood bicycle’s forever spoke, trading cardstorn into leisure limbs,wisping with the wind.
Soon enough, you’ll spin just as continuouslynext to my dissected throatand tumble, mad—dreamingly.What you’ll findin that bottomlesspitwill change your life forever,and mine(?), just digestion—a belch.
Soon enough, I will eat you alive, but I won’t want to, Iwon’t want to.
art: “Lamprey Woman” by Amanda Murrin

The Deuteronomy of Unbudded Rose Shoulders

Logan Ellis (unknowmenclature)

Grinding how much
the visceral climb of atrophy
from jaw to lower lip
and back around the carousel?

Exactly how long have you been told 
that emptiness eats through the face?
I’m beginning
to feel my head cave
and stutter like the sorrowfully revved engines
of all the cars we’ve seen parked
on the side of the highway
for too long, or
a childhood bicycle’s forever spoke, 
trading cards
torn into leisure limbs,
wisping with the wind.

Soon enough, you’ll spin just as continuously
next to my dissected throat
and tumble, mad—dreamingly.
What you’ll find
in that bottomless
pit
will change your life forever,
and mine(?), just digestion—a belch.

Soon enough, I will eat you alive, 
but I won’t want to, I
won’t want to.

art: “Lamprey Woman” by Amanda Murrin

Anonymous said: Hi,I would like to enter the what3words poetry competition.I registered on their website, and searched for a special place in Italy, where I lived as a child. Anyway, I have been given my three words, but I'm not sure of the rules, The three words, alone don't make a great title, can I add or delete words? Also how many times do I need to use my three words in my poem, and is their any minimum, or maximum poem length please?

Get creative with it. The three words must be in the title. They don’t necessarily need to be in the poem.

Best Practices for Approaching the Royal Chamber

Exercise wouldn’t be a bad idea
so you don’t feel like crap
when approaching the royal chamber.

Halos will not help you there.
Nor will funerary tokens.

The first thing to do upon entering
is skip to the next track. Unless it’s Dr. Kucho. 
Then slip out of your celery dress 
and ease yourself into bed next to him.

Spend a minute looking around, noticing the details
of the room. Find something to comment on.
He likes when you notice the condensation on the cherries
or the personal events hanging in viscosity jars. 
Do not be alarmed by the impossible baseball cap
heading for disaster. He also sometimes enjoys
multiples of three and brain-storming sessions.

If things go poorly
there is an iron weight behind the 
vampire hieroglyphics chart.
Don’t hesitate to use it, but also scream for help.
Smash the skull in good; confirm that there’s
lots of blood.

Of course you know that should this happen
you must take your life by embracing the sea

so  that suffocation and passion can be consubstantial
in you, and the last links of Odessa
can be reincarnated as truffles
in your watery-grave blouse.seed text: Ce Qui Sera: Almanac of the International Surrealist Movement
art by collageartbyjesse

Best Practices for Approaching the Royal Chamber

Exercise wouldn’t be a bad idea
so you don’t feel like crap
when approaching the royal chamber.

Halos will not help you there.
Nor will funerary tokens.

The first thing to do upon entering
is skip to the next track. Unless it’s Dr. Kucho.
Then slip out of your celery dress
and ease yourself into bed next to him.

Spend a minute looking around, noticing the details
of the room. Find something to comment on.
He likes when you notice the condensation on the cherries
or the personal events hanging in viscosity jars.
Do not be alarmed by the impossible baseball cap
heading for disaster. He also sometimes enjoys
multiples of three and brain-storming sessions.

If things go poorly
there is an iron weight behind the
vampire hieroglyphics chart.
Don’t hesitate to use it, but also scream for help.
Smash the skull in good; confirm that there’s
lots of blood.

Of course you know that should this happen
you must take your life by embracing the sea

so that suffocation and passion can be consubstantial
in you, and the last links of Odessa
can be reincarnated as truffles
in your watery-grave blouse.

seed text: Ce Qui Sera: Almanac of the International Surrealist Movement
art by collageartbyjesse

“The avoidant student thinks she has nothing to write about because no one is more boring and dull than she. She writes poems with flat language to mirror her supposedly flat subjects. In extreme cases, she may retreat into fantasy, writing genre-inspired poems populated by vampires or zombies, or simply stall out and refuse to write entirely. Then there’s the student who believes his life is endlessly fascinating. He presents a magnum opus on the subject of his recent breakup. Often this student’s work is so personally coded that it is entirely opaque to readers. In a workshop setting, such poems can be frustrating for everyone involved. To greet these efforts by simply reiterating “write what you know” will seem futile and tone-deaf to these students. They believed, they tried, and it didn’t work. But what is the alternative? Rather than preaching “write what you know,” consider persona poetry. It seems paradoxical, but writing as someone else—exploring what you don’t know—can prove an excellent method of coming to know yourself as a writer. Using a persona allows a student to temporarily shake loose her devotion to portraying her “true” self and be someone else for a while.” —

Teaching the Persona Poem by Rebecca Hazelton

This article offers a solid basic overview of persona poems and addresses the same problem I have tried to identify here.

Don’t write about yourself. Embrace artifice. Release the shackles of ego and self-awareness.

“Language—by means of imaginal vivacity has no other motion than to open itself to “sidereal immensity.”” — from General Scatterings and Comment | ENTROPY

eerie, dark, & luxurious

Jul 26

rife with sweetness

Where the Text Things Are

Hoards and hoards of documents exist
in the washing machines of English literature.

All chatter, weakly spent from the mouth-pen of man,
like stenographic ignoramus ressurexit
tearing apart the control centre of your head.

The things we thought explain everything
don’t explain everything anymore.

Tell them your uterus is broken.
Tell them the openness of love continuously erupts.

Lambs coexist in the harsh lights of red districts.
Needles are formed with bombs.
You are a pinenut of heavenly eternity,
a conquistador of sauvignon blanc
waiting in the dancehall of antithesis.

art by Leo & Pipo

Where the Text Things Are

Hoards and hoards of documents exist
in the washing machines of English literature.

All chatter, weakly spent from the mouth-pen of man,
like stenographic ignoramus ressurexit
tearing apart the control centre of your head.

The things we thought explain everything
don’t explain everything anymore.

Tell them your uterus is broken.
Tell them the openness of love continuously erupts.

Lambs coexist in the harsh lights of red districts.
Needles are formed with bombs.
You are a pinenut of heavenly eternity,
a conquistador of sauvignon blanc
waiting in the dancehall of antithesis.

art by Leo & Pipo

“how it looked,
the words beginning to run along
their edges. where it was and
where it seemed to be. the rounds
of its core.” — ELEANOR HAZARD.:  

Jul 25

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…