"blenders" poems
There are bloggers and selfie-takers,
Know the difference.
There are noisemakers and peacemakers,
I can show you the evidence.
There are admirers and haters.
Be especially mindful.
There are well-wishers and supporters.
Be very careful
The are naysayers and yeasayers
Always be aware.
There are brothers and brother's keeper,
Always ready to take care.
There are destroyers and fixers,
Separate them.
There are mixers and blenders,
We need them.
There are writers and publishers,
They need each other.
There are readers and proofreader.
Both read for different reasons.
There are bystanders and onlookers.
Both will be watching.
There are movers and shakers,
One of them has the edge.
There are dreams snatches and vision busters,
Be on the lookout.
There are ghost whisperers and Ghostbusters,
Both have connection to a ghost.
There are buyers and sellers,
Each one benefits.
There are singers and there are dancers.
Everyone provides some entertainment.
©IvanBrooksPoetry
21/8/2018
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 1:59 PM UTC
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
Oct 23, 2019
Oct 23, 2019 at 1:25 PM UTC
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.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 10:41 AM UTC
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
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 1:17 AM UTC
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.
Jul 30, 2010
Jul 30, 2010 at 9:57 PM UTC
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?
Nov 30, 2023
Nov 30, 2023 at 10:35 AM UTC
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
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 7:03 PM UTC
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-booty
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."
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 3:15 PM UTC
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.
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 8:35 AM UTC
... or, who took the MAN out?
Who took the MAN out of romance?
Who plucked the peacock of quill?
Was it a private performance?
Was it by sheer force of will?
Who took the MAN out of manners?
Did it take magical powers?
Who threw in the nails and spanners?
Perhaps they emulate ours.
Who took the FEM out of feminine?
Was it a trial? A test?
Is it SO cool to be masculine?
Assinine's what we have left!
Do we all need to lose gender?
Do all the answers lie there?
Should we all be as the blenders?
Is that decree really fair?
I'm for the lady. The gentleman.
SORRY. It's been building a while.
I just came to air out the sentiment
I love the ol' fashion styles!
Who took the MAN from romantic?
I'm guessing. It's only a hunch.
It may be the one who's got plastic
And insists upon
BUYING HER LUNCH!
SoulSurvivor
(C) 12/29/2015
All rights protected
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 9:17 PM UTC
My insecurities often scream louder
than the little voice inside of me.
Broadcasting and blasting out of stylish speakers
for all the boys and girls to see.
I've been held down,
by demons with travelling cloaks,
woven with invisible tapestry
clutched about their throats.
So to remove the words
I have so carefully purged
out my enigmatic system,
the ones caught and stuck inside my chest
with unusual strength and mysticism.
I took my hand,
jammed it deep down through my mouth
gagged on my fore fingers a second longer
in order to drag them out.
The vile words,
drowning in biled verse,
I drug them out through dreary space
and hung them with my shirts
I aired out days before.
The score of the fight
lies not in the aired out and forgotten,
but in the formations of tones
and phonetic clones
tangled in my web of rotten
sceptical insinuations.
Indelible infractions,
and taking back my sinful actions
are recanting hate, dispelling fate
burning holes within my reactions.
They've altered my vision,
long blurring scenes of scattered days
glass nails shattered in iron blenders
banishing frantic forays.
I've found it easier, less chaotic
to accept instances where I've felt at home.
I've come to enjoy devilish voices when I've lost it
because at least then, I'm not alone.
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 4:57 PM UTC
years of negativity
like seeing your
reflection on the other
side of the glass barrier,
I never looked both ways
when crossing the road
because of years
of being blind
to anything that
came close,
waking up
felt like finding
a new strand of
cancer somewhere
every day,
I heard nothing but
voices, I knew I
was hurting myself
but I never stopped to
look both ways,
I realized it wasn’t
just me that I was
impaling with sadness,
sometimes darkness
shines light on life
more than light itself
ever will,
at the bottom of
every bottle my heart
would sit and drown until
I ended up swallowing it
back into my chest,
slowly the whisky
is veering from
being stained red,
every mirror
reflects more than just
a face,
it shows a past
so dark the
background
is the focus,
instead of looking
at the rocks beneath
my feet crumbling
I’ve been taking steps back,
hands like blenders
left on too long
are reaching towards
pulling the plug,
looking both ways
has always been
a problem for me,
but I finally
caught a glimpse
at what happens
to the left and realized
that change is right.
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 9:48 PM UTC
Locks for locks
and chicken pox,
a childish fit
for childish thoughts
Left for dead
left, right, red,
confused with age
but young in head
Youth will yield to age.
Truth will tell all rage,
hidden in a heart,
hidden in your art.
Expressed without much thought,
emotion caught off guard.
Perhaps your mask needs healing,
facades that must be peeling.
And still I'm feeling lost
Myself, my own, my frost
My cold demeanor falls.
They say, "Just grow some *****
For gender dictates most,
and blenders will play host
to mixing and to matching
pretending I am acting,
pretending I exist.
Aug 26, 2010
Aug 26, 2010 at 11:58 AM UTC
Liberians, US blenders
Always known to portray the best things
Yet are nothing like those other big lenders
But are always assume to hold the worst things
Is that the reason why they are always the big spenders
Always the ones to portrayed the best of the worst things.
"Liberians portray nothing to hold the big things."
Jan 13, 2016
Jan 13, 2016 at 6:43 AM UTC
There was once a man,
he was short and had freckles and he had hands,
hands that crushed apples,
he'd joke and say
"I don't need blenders"
we'd laugh,
but I always thought he wasted an apple,
this man was rough,
like concrete cinder blocks,
imagine rubbing your knuckles on those,
I saw this man fly once,
his eyes were wild,
I could see his chest burning as he said
"Never let it die"
I never knew you fell as you flew.
There was once a man,
this man knew that life held you by the toes whispering
"this little piggy"
a man who told life he didn't like pigs.
He was friends with Death,
He told Death to die and Death just laughed.
There was once a man,
and this man died,
with one finger in the air and a smile on his face,
I think he said more in death than he ever said in life,
he said...
there was once a man
Nov 1, 2010
Nov 1, 2010 at 5:51 PM UTC
(inspired by ‘Dusty Rose Dreaming’ by vb)
We’re powdered city girls heading into a club,
bright orchids entering the hothouse,
spreading fun with noblesse oblige,
qua somethings suited for silver screens.
Our attention’s as uncertain as the stock market.
Experts at mixing trickery and disguise,
we’re but vague summations of nature,
as we sparkling preen, like excited atoms.
Rouged and kohled to unnatural colors,
dressed in silk-whispers to tease and entice,
in neon-light, broken by par-cans, scanners
and champagne flutes, we’re superhero-like
immune to societal judgment and aghast rebuke.
In our few, fleeting nights of youth
let our voices chorus in laughter.
What’s it to you? Tell the truth.
.
.
Songs for this piece:
Baby You’re a Superstar by NuDisco
Love Land by the Blenders
Nostalgie Du Voyage by Nightflight
Apr 21, 2024
Apr 21, 2024 at 1:10 PM UTC
Carassius auratius auratius
exhibited
live
in live blenders
for our sake
Would you
out of curiosity
or simply
if you had the chance
push the button
and destroy
lesser life?
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 8:40 AM UTC
Chicken Littles coming out of the wood work
Like maggots out of a dead deer dangling
From Santa's sleigh ride
Got a devil in the white house
What's new?
You can't recycle old news
You can't put dead bodies in church pews
Pockets full of politics
Heads stuck in blenders
We'll all become activists
As long as Samsung and Zuckerberg can make it happen
On eight inch screens!
Never lifted a finger for a cause past a ballot box
Never gave a fork full of ***** for bums sleeping in parking lots
All of a sudden,
Everyman was stuck apologizing to a female
For an offhand comment
To an off brand television host
Meanwhile, it's still cool to walk up to a reporter
From the five o'clock news
And **** her right in the *****
While she's recording the neighborhood's on going blues!
But hey! As long as he's not running for office,
He can say what he wants in front of cameras
About any jive female's orifice
Right?
Hmm...
I'm sorry,
Maybe I'm just confused
I don't know what's right anymore
When everything's wrong....
I'd rather just crawl back into my 20 something hole
And take hits from some ****
I need a good body guy
My ride is a wreck
The engine just sputters
All of the passengers are *****
I give up hope
I think it's a total loss
No one wants to listen anymore
and everyone's the boss.
Nov 10, 2016
Nov 10, 2016 at 5:30 PM UTC
We were embers of danger embedded in
plight
We threw gender to blenders and begun a new fight
We surrendered our splendor to sleep for the
night
But our nightmares still tendered their souls for
The light
Aug 16, 2024
Aug 16, 2024 at 3:38 PM UTC