they say that time flies

they are wrong

with every second that I spend

with you

I know that they are wrong

it is us that fly

it is me

it is you

they say time flies as an expression of its limitless nature

me and you have no boundaries

we are

when we are

where we are

we

are

always

they say time flies

but with each tick

with each tock

I am sure it is us

we fly

we are

infinite

And the sea that once sung,
will sing again,
the written rhyme undone,
will be write again.

For dancing hope will always shine,
No matter how dark the cage,
A bright sharp tooth to remind,
That you must get through today.

So let your strength burn through your skin,
Claim your chance with both arms,
It is for you that I will sing,
Your own strength keeps you safe from harm.

I'll follow you into the dark tonight.
I'll serenade you with lies so sweet you'll lick them up until the last drop.
I have no real intentions and we have no future.
But with my reassuring lies, I'll stitch away any insecurity you may have.
I'll mend every single last doubt.
Rest assured, beautiful. I'll lie until you feel good.
When you're at your best point, I'll kick you.
I'll kick you until you fall.
But when you're down, I promise to pick you up.
I'll hold you.
I'm a beautiful liar. You won't see past me.
Blinded by my dark brown eyes.
Hypnotized by my soft pink lips.
I'm screaming not to trust me.
But you will always come back.
And I will never let you go.

Waves and words
conveyed through cracked cuticles
and shrouded in fog.
The harder one stares
into the mist
the less visible
the details become.
As with a photo
that's out of focus
step back
and widen the eyes.

Poems are useless
Though some people read them
They’re either trying to be romantic
Or pseudo-intellectual
Or they just like it
When words
Are formatted
Like
This

Words are useless
You can’t eat them
Or **** them
And despite what you may think
Words will not keep you company

Books are useless
Like clothes several sizes too big
You can only disappear into them
When you have given up on life
There will always be a good book
Lying around

This is one of those serious poems
And yet it has nothing new to say
But the poet needs to keep himself busy
And writing seems to be the easiest way

The poet rises up on his soapbox
Because he works better from an elevated height
He screams about organized religion, politics
And stripping away of our basic human rights

Like a magician with a classic misdirection
The poet wraps his moralizing in purple prose
He hits you over the head with one simple point
That he’s forgotten more than you’ll ever know

Around the time of the nineteenth obscure reference
The reader is in awe of his far-reaching knowledge
Then the poet overuses polysyllabic words
Just to prove he went to a good college

And the poet keeps filling up the notebooks
Even though he should have stopped long ago
But the publisher agreed to pay by the word
So unfortunately, there’s four more stanzas to go

Quickly, the release date approaches
There’s one printing, then two, then three
And the poem becomes a hit in coffee shops
Recited by grad students in between bites of biscotti

His face now graces the cover of every magazine
In an explosion of exuberant media admiration
Dozens of talk show appearances are scheduled
For the newly crowned “voice of our generation”

The publisher decorates the dust jacket with blurbs
Complimenting the book’s “dangerously original rhymes”
But it’s nothing more than passing hyperbole
Gathered from a glowing review in The New York Times

Now thousands grasp the paperback edition
And eagerly await the feature film adaptation
Meanwhile, the poet hunches over his typewriter
And commits more sententious literary *******

And now a search comes upon the poem,
A search already possessed by what it searches for:
Floundering in the hallucination of its darkness,
Illuminated by the Light it tries to create.

(You are this Light
That illuminates the darkness of the search
For a light that it seeks to make
In place of the One by which it searches.)

It turns to the poem for guidance
Or amusement or distraction,
In its effort to create the light
It assumes itself to be.

(But this end that its ideal proclaims
Lies disobeyed by the means prescribed:
No search could find the light it tries to create
Unless it surrenders itself to the present from which Light shines)

If the search stepped into this Light
And ceased its attempt to replace it,
As if to own or dominate it,
Its light would burn.

(Here the search abolishes itself
As it ends its violent struggle:
As light-in-Light it finds its way to peace
And surrenders its hallucination of control to truth.)

There is never nothing new
Just rearrange things

I don’t write poems
I just remove the extra words that are in the way

Hold on to the words like whispers and shadows and wings
Recklessly insert adjectives
Tie it all to your delusions of profundity

Dig down deep for pain
no matter how senseless
Pick at your emotional scabs
Bleed

No one likes poetry
Constantly remind people of that
Tell them that you make it sound good to you and **** them
(Even though their ovation means everything)

Slip, dip and weave
With ambiguous wet dreams
Full lips and thick tongue
Mouthing…
Come
to an understanding
***** is much better than clean
Make it filthy
Soil it

Make it nostalgic
People need to be reassured that you were really ******* up as a kid
and that this poetry **** doesn’t just happen to people overnight

Make it esoteric
That way, when no one knows what the hell you are talking about,
you will have a good word to explain why

Say things that are so ill mannered that they are weighty
I will give you an example
“I’m not looking for a girl that is beautiful
I'm looking for one just barely ugly enough to **** me”

Incite large groups of people to *****

Get so personal that it gives people headaches

Expose yourself until everyone is embarrassed for you

Spew it all over the bar
In a drunken stupor
flaunt it lasciviously with your genitals
Pour yourself into reckless collisions
Drink from your soul until it rots your liver

Write until you want to **** yourself
then write about that

Make it as bitter as a Wal-mart associate
Make it so sweet she will swallow it all
before looking up at you with eyes like tiny puddles
To say, “that was beautiful”
(even though it was disgusting)

It should be raw
It should make you itch
It should be like rubbing up against it spreads it
It should be like VD

Make really long
Like it’s your *****
No,
Make it really, really long
Like its my *****

Make it rhyme
I mean don’t
Don’t

Don’t ever write another ******* poem
because I assure you
if I did not write it
than it must ****

and that is how poetry works

Michael L Sutter