Intestines twisted into a bow
Skeleton, no skin, all bone
Chased into a grave
By someone "brave"

Head cut off, and hung at the hips
Mouth sewn shut, wires in the lips
Promised a voice
In a place of just "noise"

Ears forced down into the pharnyx
Tongue cut off, and swallowed
Chained to the dark
Left with a "spark"

Wasabi poured into each eye
Needles poked into the iris, to dry
Breathing fractured breaths
In the times of "stress"

Fingers shredded in blenders
Toes were sold by the vendors
Broke the rules
To be reduced to mere "molecules"

Heart frozen in ice
Lungs cracked in slices with a knife
Crawling towards a light
Dipped in "fright"

Genitalia, mutilated
Thighs and chest burned til it was disseminated  
Walking into the darkness
Trying to reach the "conconscious"

Frigida glacies

Interview With Lucifer

Name is Lucifer, come right in,
you count blessings, I count sin.
It says here, you've been a bad man,
an active member of the ku klux ****.
The number of women you ***** is one hundred six,
you help little kids play naked pick up sticks.
You put small animals into blenders,
the class you're in, has only a few members.
You've done every drug in the book,
you're a two timing, back stabbing crook.
Killed your mom, killed your dad,
says here, that it made it you glad.
Killed your sister, killed your brother,
then had *** with your dead mother.
You're more mean than Mr. Grinch,
you're even making me kinda flinch.
You make serial killers, look like angels,
for fun you shoot yourself with staples.
The people you killed is in the hundreds,
you keep the bodies in your two dungeons.
You eat flesh and drink their flood,
you deserve a movie up in Hollywood.
***** a nun and left your *****,
you're over qualified to be a demon.
You once burned an entire town,
you've been a bad, bad man Mr. Brown.
Not even the devil, will be your friend,
you will burn here in hell til the very end.

walking through the big flea market

off of highway 19 north of Tampa

looking for whatever and something

curious and kitsch or campy



merchants selling in the parking lot

used blenders and old cameras

burnt out or faulty devices

DVD cases and game cartridges



old rednecks shout out opinions

in a cacophony of drawled signifiers

representing visions of despotic rulers

reigning a tyranny of taxes and decline



old glass containers and windshields shine

scattering high afternoon sunlight in the Sunday sky

sitting and resting used and content waiting

waiting for the wear and reduction of time



the market continues into indoor aisles

criss-crossing within a ramshackle structure

plywood walls supporting sheet metal roofing

an aroma of every greasy food wafting into one



people wrapped in worn fashions

whites in Ts and denim

muslim women in headscarves

a black deputy strapped down in uniform



the deputy enforces commerce laws

around the alternative marketplace

a variety of commodities are still available

bongs and e-cigs and incense and **** ****



parakeets cry out down one aisle

a stack of blue aquariums drone a bubbling hum

the stench of cedar and rat **** and hamsters

reptiles basking in the arid glow of heat lamps



all is right in America’s America

the flea market is the floorboard of that promise

an opportunity for anyone to begin

or start again and over and over



a liberal conservatism can be guarded well

with rifles or tazers at bargain rates

a conservative liberalism is applied openly

in the atmosphere of everyone for anything and everything



the dream of the flea market

a black market and a carnival

all of America’s cheap art on display

its people swirled into one



equal in their struggles and desires

reaching for resources and derivatives

buying low and selling higher

stealing and selling short



walking through the big flea market

on a hot and cloudless Sunday afternoon

looking for whatever or something

it’s a fun thing to do


**originally posted to my blog https://sublimeobscenities.wordpress.com on 4/27/2014

all eyes,
all on me,
all eyes,
hanging
all over me.

milk the silence.

fingertips trace the
splintered podium.

clear my throat,
once,
twice.

"We shoulduh' seen this coming."

great opener.

"Our end was scored
by symphonies of sitcoms,
reality television, coffeehouse blenders,
and fanatical braking.

Our pride in resilience was the
spark that lit the powder keg.

Foreigners couldn't stop us,
for we stopped letting 'em in years ago.

Time couldn't stop us,
for our bodies are made of plastic,

and words don't dent us,
for our emotions are backed by
the most stubborn of metals.

We broke love when we were still young.
All us boys were aiming for quick fixes,
and all you girls were aiming for margarita mixes.
Ladies decided they wanted to nest around the
smoking age,
and if they were attractive enough,
us boys bit.

We all got divorced.

We all got into politics.

Some of us died for a country,
but none of us are sure why.

Some of us ran from debt,
some recorded folk songs on laptops,
some sexed their way out,
some drank themselves to death.

We shoulduh' seen this coming.

But we didn't, so that makes you and I, the idiots.

The smart ones had foresight,
and departed us early.

Now we idiots look to the murderous sky,
and wait."

all eyes,
all on me,
all eyes,
hanging
all over me.

milk the silence.

i raise my arms up,
as though the crowd is crucifying me.

they want to finish their burgers.
they want to stroke each other's egos.
they want to pass the blame on some
distant land,
and stick boots up ***** and wave a few flags.

"So civilization doesn't get to rust,
it goes out in a flash and is carried away as dust.

Mankind annihilates itself in a fit of boredom.

Get stoked for the funeral pyre."

all eyes,
all on the ground.
all skin,
all plastic skin did melt.
all forgotten dreams,
all torn from hidden seams.
all the thin, the fat, the republican, the democrat,
all the white, the black, the chinese,
the arabs, the jews, the druggies,
the christians, the monkeys, mtv stars,
toilet seats, pamphlets,
all the newsreels, dvds,
collector's editions, suvs,
all fuse together,
all in one immaculate heat.

no one even got a chance to applaud.

To begin with,
We have YOU,
And we have Me.
And we also have THEM, THEY, THEIRS THOSE, WE AND US.
As well, we have:
SOGIES
Asexuals
Allies
Intersexes
Bisexuals
Lesbians
Gays
H­omosexuals
Pansexuals
Queers
Straights
Heterosexuals
Gender Binaries
Afabs
Amabs
Agenders
Androgynes
Gender Blenders
Bigenders
Cisgenders
Cross-dressers
Drag Queens
Drag Kings
Enbies
Gender Dysphoria
Gender fluids
Gender Non-conformists
Gender Queers
Gender Variants
Non-Binaries
Questioners
Transgenders
Transitions
Transs­exuals
Two-Sprits... and
LGBTQIA+
(Flora and Fauna?)

Does Genesis have anything right?

It matters not who you are where from
Each entity has and is a soul things to say
What it sees from where its standing
Upon any given night and any given day

Each soul has a voice and every poem too
Is what it wishes us to experience knowing
From wanting us to gather information
Happiness sadness Love from winds blowing

We make it harder for our souls thinking
That we controll our fate destiny and way
Instead of listening to our souls own voice
And what it has us for us to explore any day

Be it love in all forms from lust to simple care
And it gets angry with us ignoring its request
We often give ourselves advice its our ignorance
Not having been there yet not knowing of its test

Convincing ourselves we know when we do not
Telling others of our own ideas how it should be
Reasons why we should listen to it act upon it
Have bodies minds hearts sail that unsailed sea

It comes to us with a thought a wish a need
And we decide oh no thats not for me and so
We miss its requests for us to find out first
Before speaking for it not allowing do it go

Think of all many advise without knowing
Of things we have never known but insist
Of things situations emotions never learned
Feelings we feel not me but still  never kissed

Saving ourselves religious fantasy from equals
Listening to endless advice from pretenders
Who never have been there but know it all
Without lives putting  lives through blenders

Ignoring our own souls requests playing god
Our souls get angry adding karma to awake
Then us blaming others life others unknowing
When its ourselves to blame  our own mistake

Walk those paths never walked befor then advise
Know more of things we ridicule often true
Know what a situation feels like first of all
They might be  way better than we ever knew

Endless reason there are for allowing our souls
To request us to do as it wants us to do
Then after we experience pass its tests
We might like dislike love admire of them true

Many reasons are there for its voice being poetry
Try to read others writes between lines that be
Think deep then write of how you imagine was
If not known then go sail that unknown sea

https://sep.yimg.com/ay/yhst-13927681880659/bronze-the-thinker-sculpture-2.jpg

terrence michael sutton
copyright 2018

Forward one, back two, forward one,
back two
A turtle's toil, progress is a distant memory
The collapse of civilizations,
we struggle to struggle
Fortitude bends like willow branches;
encampment of silenced voices

Encumbered by greed-swine
sitting in high places savagely
devouring tax-*****
Their everyday grinding
flesh and bone into greed-blenders

We look at each other, shrug our shoulders,
do giddy little side glances, lower them
And just say, " another day, just another day."

We are possibility.
Nothing undone:
the red key swung,
the pins aligned.
     Spite and Malice -
you won in Burque;
in Buffalo, in April,
I'll be writing in coffee shops.

Cage made fake acrostics
and clamoured more than us.
He watered himself in blenders
tacked his piano like stigmata.

But really, he just put the right letter
on the correct line (if he
ever wrote a line),
but our house was a mess
of books and skulls
and everywhere you looked
too perfect a nest,

so we tore ourselves apart.
Why don't we stop?
Someone will spend graduate school
anthologizing our correspondence,
analyzing the details we missed,
et al., hic et nunc.

The girls dancing in Budapest
and the guys making passes at you in the snow
reduce us to baser instincts
by counting how we
could, might, tentatively
hurt again
on our second-class driver's test.

Fortunately, I am with you
when you look at computer screens
and you're with me at the bar
when television commercials
show off their bras and the beer hits
harder than libretto
and snus drips down the candle wax
making arcs like the Scott Monument.

The imperfection is bliss,
the knots loosen and move
up our spines. We'll soak
the tub and swell
our glands with menthe
and tumble
     further down the mud,
until we either love or ****
what makes us whole.