uutpoetry

[uutpoetry]

Clink of Shunting Engines

What shall we do, what shall we do? The world calls us, breaking its neck like an eagle on Friday while pursuing the good, weight of eternity on its back cool back of stone, appearing to bystanders to close and open  close and open, organ of the ruddy god in our veins. Deacons and presbyterians have disappeared—what have we but each other? The river when it opens grabs our knees, bends us toward the warm gusts of June blasting the oaks outside torching them like butterflies, blowing sea-ward our heavy baggage  like a ruby in the invisible dark, glowing letting the weekend come early, at least in my heart.

some phrases from D. H. Lawrence and James Michael; art by /|\

#poetry #half and half

[uutpoetry]

at your breasts two blackbirds awoke, shook their heads, then swung on huge musical wings high above us

Peter Wild, “To Silvia”

#kayak

[uutpoetry]

Frescobaldi

You were pilot of a ship with three flags, spilled coffee, defunct Hydroflasks, and dry erase markers. The over-watered plants drooped toward us as if bowing, but they’re dying. My least favorite surrealist poet is staring at me from the corner. She’s a stressful coworker who comes to work early and talks on the phone. Frescobaldi seems too sharp, my shoes, too brown.

art by DulceChicoLatina

#poetry #six lines

[uutpoetry]

To Stitch Together Green Bones

Angelo 'NGE' Colella

To stitch together green bones first you need to adjust the crosshair on your needle. It’s no different from swaddling disproportionate opals because bones have that mechanicalized allure but it’s more similar to plugging in windmills and sketching flowcharts of their thinking & dreaming activities. When lovers will see how non-collaborative Time is they will treasure even the swarfs of sculpted palpitations like they really are ransom sacks extrait. But, before that, they shun the false king with his quicksilver appetites with his hypnotizing whip to telepathically deflower roses with his marching band of acuminate fifes and shivering ouija boards. If I were a lover, I’d love to just moonstrike candleholders like flags during a backseat zoning-out.

art by ms. neaux neaux

#poem #submission #Angelo 'NGE' Colella

[uutpoetry]

old memories of fallow lands slumber in my flesh listen to the immensity breaking in the trees outside

Tristan Tzara, “Acceptance of Spring”

[uutpoetry]

Totem

My coffee this morning is all the way from Jamaica, and The Surrealism Reader cannot explain. The golden-blue June sunrise cannot explain. The world is around but also next to me, the same as I left it. There were no vacant spots in the luggage of my mind to take it with me. Where I went is best explained in Brauner’s Totem of Blessed Subjectivity II, which “touches base” on how, in a dry meadow, we hold our hearts out while screaming. We grow weary, put on contrarian gloves, form an ouroboros with our feet, mouths, eyes. Do we guard or destroy the tiny animal inside? We are a womb which is about to become a sun, a maze of umbilical cord and teeth, transfmorgrifying the wheat field in gory psychology. May our kidney bean gym weights bring us “gains” in pensive vascular markets. Art destroys the world as it existed, leaving a foetal rubble as bright as stars.

Art by Victor Brauner

#poetry #O'Hara Prompt

[uutpoetry]

Freedom has no age. It is not the fact of colour or reason. It belongs to a person as much as the sound of his own voice. It is, at the level of the immediate gesture, his means of choosing one path rather than another, his attitude with  a landscape. It is his poetry and his portion of mystery and his difference from his brother. There is no one who is outside of freedom or who might not be called upon one day—even if only for a single moment—to meet with it and to grow with it.

George Henein, “Freedom as Nostalgia and as Project”

#surrealism #philosophy

[uutpoetry]

and the undressed get dressed again and the dressed get undressed and exchange the leaden swallows for the leaden nests consequently the tail is an umbrella a mouth opens within another mouth and within this mouth another mouth and within this mouth another mouth and so on without end it is a sad perspective

Hans Arp, “The Domestic Stones”

#Arp

[uutpoetry]

Poem With Phrases from Two Books I Just Bought From the City Library Because I’m Bored and Don’t Want To Work

The entire backyard is in shade—the great spruce is monstrous. It offers visually precise copies of my heart which sits on my head today in the form of a trucker hat symbolizing, perhaps, my allegiance to Real America. No— it’s just a W for “Washington,” which is the name of the surface of an unknown asteroid. It’s a real good coincidence “astroid” and “avoid” rhyme. In the “Treatise on Human Progress” we are admonished to suddenly change directions and turn into religion. Yes, on the southwest shores of India we become various solo instruments of the cosmos. During the next half century, we reverse this process.

It can be said that things have gone well. We have opened the way to mathematical cartography. We have worked silently from morning to night to make clouds. We have used latitude and longitude at sea. We have eaten with  lots of different people. What more could we want? To diffuse information— and misinformation? Ah. Yes. We could ask for that.

Phrases from 1Q84 by Murakami and The Discovers by Boorstin, bought for .50 this afternoon. Art by ||.

#poetry #half and half

[uutpoetry]

5 Ingredients

With 5 Ingredients Jamie Oliver has turned us into playful epicures, spraying orange cheese on hot skillets, tossing the odd shoe at the window. Raise the blinds of your heart, my love: let in some light. Kotana’s Poplars By the Water offers an example. It’s as easy as shelling peas—easy if you do it in Jamie’s carefree way. From our kitchen each night like clockwork we see neighbors in flannel pajamas, walking the dog—a different carefree way to spend an evening. At dusk we open our laptops, put ourselves under lights, begin to write. We’re in ancient Rome or by yellow trees. Synthwave tries again to identify with the human condition. I admit it’s smooth, can harmonize any reflective surface. The warm tones soften the false electric light   of these solemn rooms.

Art by Ferdinand Katona

#O'Hara Prompt #poetry #ekphrasis #journal

[uutpoetry]

Cadmium

Dave Shortt the quantum of action inhabits rainbow spectra speculative matter, where inflammable energy showers & electron clouds personally grace each other, anonymously hailed in cults of tobacco smoke hanging in rooms of negative ions gone mad from huge micro-abuse later directed towards an electrode proclaimed sane periodically put on trial for its envied powers released from further social responsibility by contributing to the predicted glory of the annihilation of night, a prediction made small by pundits in absolute TV (picture tube) security sowing daily survivals of apparently useless probabilities whose unregistered velocities superpose locally to all that, contributing to a fluffy psychological imprint of bottlefeeding formed from malarkey (passing beings change color somewhere under 'indeterminably fair' skies realized from a painter's elemental palette, future auras of  steel culture coated with uncertainty go in & out of focus under ultraviolet gazes of science love art scientist lover artist who could ever understand? how a star's fusion snuffs out cause, of death etc. like a neutron plasma (for peace) destabilized & hovering just belowground, spent rags of ergs of graying frequencies age in outer shells, flux of emotion is blocked during calcium's hungerings after voltages capable of singeing the young slowly exciting into statistical freedoms transacted from ashen cool, in which their judgment, lacking impressionistic tints, might collapse one fine day into fluorescent compassion, classically invisible random cancers are analyzed late in a life lived in marked tendency towards beta decay, a participant-observer physiognomy captures electrons from duality (his or her chewed-on pipe's distinction from old PVC inspires elephantine travels into unity based in indium, witnessable as healthy percentiles of natural law radiating from the consumer/consumed, traded for an unconditioned hadron in the largesse of whose radioactive superscripts & heavy breathing ore receives glittery its complementarity extracted into light of day viewed closely in experiments of possession, comfort experience retains discreteness before leaping into (isotopic masks of) spiritual values appearing as the same enzyme devolved to material-in-the-raw unplugged from fine appliances, reflecting on the whelping S-process of its star to 'prove' a non-violent natural neutrino, long lost ridiculous the souvenir of dogweed's dogmatic deadly hackings using poetry's ink & inkless chemical syntheses moderating inductively in ductile bi-valency (against emphysema's amorphous takeover), what opens onto solar cell gluon middle paths on top of nearby refuge dimensions for poison victims taking added chances with what's left in another hardly believed space where home sweet home the dying sun's bluegreen nickel-cored battery is probably leaking  its life      ?

Dave Shortt is a longtime writer (from the USA) whose work has appeared over the years in a number of online and print literary-type venues, most recently Silver Pinion, Beatific, Molly Bloom and the print anthology Octo-Emanations #8.   More of his poems can be found archived in Blackbox Manifold and Blaze Vox.

Art by vavoir

#poem #submission #Dave Shortt #repost

[uutpoetry]

Being born amounts to peering out from a cliff Over the sea. The great jellyfish who spread their arms Out on the sea tell us how deep our ignorance is.

Robert Bly, “A Week on the Oregon Coast” 

#Bly #analogy

[uutpoetry]

The Blinds Dance

Melody was born in simple song, the pristine clarity of a single voice. As Albarosie warns, you don’t want salute / by a gun dispute.  We may assert: there is darkness. The mailbox, shaking with fright keeps its eye open wide, and we exchange smouldering glances, laugh…

art by /|\

#poetry #uncategorized

[uutpoetry]

5 Medical Signs You Shouldn't Ignore

Catherine B. Krause 1. A new tentacle on your head. While it's normal for a growing biology to develop tentacles in the process of mutating to the next-level organism, a tentacle on the head is dangerously close to the brain and may enable it to access higher knowledge or food items, ultimately leading it to become more powerful than your puny body. Resist the temptation to transcend this reality, as the next reality might not be any better, and what would we do without you? Think of the oylem-haze. 2. Flashing back to previous poems. Truly there is nothing more poetic than cheese, as a famous person once said, but salanthropists are flowing with salad to give to anyone who needs it, if only they would swallow their vegetables. Do you think you understand where capitalism ends and vegetarianism begins? It's more complicated than you think. Consume less, if you think it will help you. It's a free space between our ears, for now. 3. Being delighted by razor beams. Razor beams are terrifying, like razory laser beams that cut you in half. What sort of sick mind would enjoy this sort of thing? Not me, not you. Stop teasing the cat with a back scratcher; it wasn't meant for such things. It's a carnivorous predator and it's bored; how would a razor beam help it cope with a reality between four walls where there's never enough scritching or food to chase? 4. Unquestionable thirst for power. I've had a painful bump in the middle of my right shin, maybe slightly to the right of the bone in the middle, for the last two weeks. It's the whole group dynamic at a place like that, and people need to question it more. China, Russia and Iran are just competitor imperialists to America. May the world be corrected to such an extent that our descendants will look back on us with a bit of disgust. 5. Too many cats and not enough energy. If you want to live somewhere affordable, start using this spoon to scoop peanut butter out of the jar. Or go to a different country, preferably, because cats deserve all the attention and all the space, so don't get too many, no matter how much you love them. No matter how great it sounds to be a crazy cat lady, always tease them with a back scratcher. This is not mean-spirited but a fictionalized account of something that really happened to me 10 years ago.

Catherine B. Krause is a crazy cat lady, survivor, and dork living in Niagara Falls, NY. All her writing is released under the CC-Zero license because she doesn't believe in copyright. She has been doing a lot of T-shirt design lately under the name dikleyt at Redbubble and Teepublic, and has uploaded much of this art to Wikimedia Commons under the same license.

Art by kimama

#poem #prose poem #catherine b krause #submission

[uutpoetry]

Our many souls—what Can they do about it? Nothing. They're already Part of the invisible.

Robert Bly, “Why We Don’t Die”

#Bly

[uutpoetry]

our knees

made love one night

a city without any jealousy

a triangle with a dance of death...

a lilac still scrawnily blooms just like Whitman said

hideaway made secure in my secrets— there is no place else;

O doctor, O professor sick as I am putting everything off

doing things beneath an ordinary evening:

I was a child holding a feeling more breathless than a tongue

source texts: The Collected Poems of Frank O’Hara, The Collected Poems of Kenneth Koch; art by Ffîon

#poetry #minimalism

[uutpoetry]

#link #surrealism