first line lips are false as a beach next mcarthur’s in chicago next the big blond takes the elevator down next pearl on the lip next shalimar stirs the canine **** all right I like that let’s start a new one do it what what do you have don’t **** up wheres the apostrophe ******* you’re cruel now back now whack it again whack it again I want it to go back whack it press it whack it okay new line

i want elevator i want uh i want don’t ask the bellboy for the time just take the elevator to what? to notions? to the lingerie shop? ah ******* grandma new line

all right one more time okay **** the gin-socked tongue that’s “soaked” period once again the elevator down paint the pretty tie (cough cough) thai next big buick big *** like fish put a ? after fish take it back take it back you ***** okay that’s not bad you do all right ah **** song of india in the desert at night put “” marks around song of india & desert song in capital letters hit shalimar then cadillac red lips then **** like a seashell with a gin-soaked tongue start new line

all right does mcarthur stick his socks in the bathtune at night that’s bathtub the dog howls at the moon buries it in the backyard snakes lose their skin cocoa butter slick water on the brain of the big dark blond song of india **** **** **** big fish *** big v8 you ***** keep up with me painted rocks like a pretty tie fast car long legs and a broken heel now dead no not dead yet um estee lauder goes down on price-waterhouse in a swedish bath bellboy watching this is his reflection in the mirror no silver one-sided next line

big blond trampled by elephants with wrinkled knees starch is not chic all gone shalimar stirs the k-9 **** sequined *** in the moonlight cadillac red lips hungry dog eats tail becomes himself bad dog play dead okay what do you suggest bad doggie bad comma bad comma hungry dog go for the tongue you dumb ***** keep going new line

what do cactuses(i) have??? fronds fur what are their things called new line

dog hates gin go for the breast stupid ***** good dog dry dog poor dog pour blond water of life **** yellow a thai like painted rocks period next

i want head down legs up i want sequined *** only ****** level damp dampened dampest ***** panorama **** **** **** blue blue down there feminine azure with clouds too got it odalisque in blue period have mercy on me no no new ******* line what are you filling that thing up with okay stop it for now

without the humans
pedaling along like
ants following paths
the redwoods still stand
still and mighty and feeling
the faintest breeze and dampest
touch of the birds nestled between
branches
never moving unprovoked or uncaused
they wait for nothing because there is
nothing to a redwood but the earth and the sun and
the rain and the ants still pedaling between grooves in her
hardened flesh, no wringer so efficient and wise *******
fallen water and moist air through the tips of toes and out into
the world above the wood ceiling so green and full and bourgeoning
life into the lungs of the moving types unable to stand still and breathe
and watch their god turn miracles by unspoken stories of growth and sheltering
persistence and resolve to manufacture life and color from dirt and water and air so
quietly respired

without the humans
pedaling along like
ants following paths
the redwoods still stand
still and mighty and feeling
the faintest breeze and dampest
touch of the birds nestled between
branches
never moving unprovoked or uncaused
they wait for nothing because there is
nothing to a redwood but the earth and the sun and
the rain and the ants pedaling between grooves in her
hardened flesh, no wringer so efficient and wise *******
fallen water and moist air through the tips of toes and out into
the world above the wood ceiling so green and full and bourgeoning
life into the lungs of the moving types unable to stand still and breathe
and watch their god turn miracles by unspoken stories of growth and sheltering
persistence and resolve to manufacture life and color from dirt and water and air so
quietly respired

Earthlings
We send out waves into the deepest reaches of space, and deeper
We send mechanical eyes to the edges of the solar system
We are not looking for answers, we never were
Like a lonely sail boat sinking at sea, launching a flare so bright in the cusp of the darkest hours
Or when a dictator looses all their power from the burden of rebellion
Torn of all the comforts of formalities
They cower in the dampest corner, in that unbearable discomfort, when your thighs have went numb and you need to, you proceed to move but you just can't
So you toss fragments of rock in to the hall outside your prison cell, hoping for an answer
Because everyone is against you
For you are a person, and are thus the dictator of every mistake you have made
And this haunts you while you hide in the shade
Humanity does not seek truth or conclusions,
we seek help

Under the ancient sofa
among the kingdom of skittish dust bunnies,
I searched that strange underworld
of my living room.

I looked behind the refrigerator,
found old bits of a doughnut
and some new species of insect
and the toenail clippers.

Next to the oldest pile of boxes
in the dampest section of the basement,
found three oddly colored socks
and an ant's nest.

I searched the whole house--
I found no words.

Nothing for the sight of you,
walking away
as the clouds melted
and poured from the sky.

My fingertips asserting soft pressure upon the concrete allow me to feel how cold and damp my city truly is. The weather is obviously a dead give away, but to truly understand something I feel as though the tactile approach gives one a more accurate picture.
Soft fine drops of precipitation strike my hooded jacket as I pass between streetlights, phone boxes, poles with no signs and signs with no poles. The back alleys feel like home. The bohemians, students and junkies pass by adopting a familiar fixed gaze on the cold, grey ground. Nobody speaks to me, not even once. I revel in that. The pretty girls leaving the hidden college and the ugly men sat upon scaffolding, high above the city, like Gods, Angels, workers. Imagine if one just fell.
I hurry my pace past the crowd that gathered, I'm not a fan. The alley gets darker as the time ticks by and I contemplate time ticking by. Lost in transient intermittent thoughts of pasts, futures and presents of each face that solemnly passes by my own stoic masterpiece. I must get out of this drizzle before it begins to pour.
The poor man stops me once more.
I haven't got the change he needs.

It was in a dream that the bearded man came to me.
"You must come down, my son. You do not belong in the skies."
I was often paralysed by such dreams. I guess I still am.
Unable to call for help, afraid of the heights I could reach,
I'm contained by logic even in dreams.

I'm sorry I can't be what is expected. Expectations are often too high. But I still walk with my hood covering my stoic masterpiece. The sun is dead, the stars too. The crowds dispersed, the pretty girls lost their charm and the men descended from their fixtures to reveal themselves as boorish and dim-witted. A personal problem of my own. Junkies are sheltered in their boarded up flats, while the students tap away on gadgets they hate yet cannot live without. The bohemians dance and talk and sing and love.
I continue to walk softly on the coldest and dampest concrete my city has to offer. Unwilling or unable to interfere with the natural balance.
And so the drizzle turns to a downpour,
the poor man still asks for change,
I'm still unable to provide the change he needs.

We lie here with our loved
In the dampest of fields
Amid the days
When the dawn and sunset quarrel.
The guns are heard echoing in the fields,
"Mark
And
Take
And
Break."
And we who were loved
When the sky was still grey
Sleep in the fields,
Short lived,
Dead and Gone.

Do you have the time?
The shadows cast precisely
Although the sun does not shine
One Dimension pierces fiercely

Out of the depths of shade
Attacks and lashes burn to ashes
Sweep away alongside the blade
Under Earths dampest grasses

What becomes of the tenses
How will we know the effects
Our never existing or everlasting pseudosciences
Or vibrating aching senses

Trivial pursuit of happiness
When being lacks discernment
Run valiantly towards darkness
Battle dimensional resurgents

On the dampest days,

I miss you enough to fabricate you.

Years worth of my heart’s energy invested into the study of making matter,

Of bringing it across an ocean

to reassemble near the maples and the bush

and on paper and cards, across a board of letters we catch up and play and paint,

just the same.

Writing with your guts on the floor at your feet
one last line

I thought I saw the dampest of the rooms, the quietest of them all
a place to thaw out and find solitude

Crystalline castles of crushed candy, cobwebs in your clover,
stone cold sober but I'm lying

Water in a parched mouth like parchment sent south with
letters left sideways

Paths in the patchwork with placid predictions on the possibilities
ahead of us

A rusty hook in your back between the discs, rupturing cartilage,
imperceptible and brisk

The wrong angle and I choke, strangle, hang from a bad angle, clothes-dangle and mangle

Pieces of Pisces carved up like jack-o-lanterns on the front porch

Internally I feel the roaches, ashes on the floor and cigarette butts
sticking to the soles

Plastic deconstruction, reshaped through combustion into the
typical and obtuse

All these sad sillouhettes of sad people, artists and creatives.
Smoke filtering through broken lungs.
Rising and lifting the spirits of the dead.

Coz we are the broken few who see the light in the darkest of moments, breathing in the dampest air, and enjoying every moment.

the shoulders are the dampest,

soaked with exchanged comfort and bittersweet grief.

amidst the mourning there’s always the systematical process of the farewell –

the only way to guide us to the true end.



we do it with fire

to purify, to cleanse, to return to dust.



we kindle affections, relations, intentions,

and nurture a flame that always grows out of control,

leaving loss and lament to burn our hearts.



condolences blur into a soft hum,

nothing unites us in our differences but

sometimes it only takes the pathos of cremation to realize that

ashes, ashes, we all fall down.

Missing the last bus after show
Deciding to walk on home-
Taxi's all booked up so they say
So it's off towards home alone-
Raining , foggy , shiny streets
Not too many lights that glow-
Streets cobble stones and narrow
Wet from rain and melting snow-
Souls on corners alone they stand
One here one over there-
Alone and backs to walls of brick
In the fog and dampest air-
Looking so like shadows on a wall
Or all trying to do same-
Waiting there for God knows what
There being as if nothing to explain-
Hats all pulled down lower still
Collars way up high-
Coats almost to the ground
All dark and black color of night sky-
One carries onward and forward going
With ears still open wide-
Wondering what they could be doing
As if holding walls up without pride-
Standing there alone in night air
Darkest part of night-
As if trying to be invisible
Or frightened of daylight-
Midnight statues here and there
One soon passes this place-
Of motionless souls of as if stone
All with hidden signs of face-

( a true story )

Terrence Michael Sutton
copyright 2018

Deep within a far away tropical forest
Was where I found upon that day~
The most beautiful of natural carpets
Beyond compare come what may~
Tallest trees still and of used to be
Covered with natures moss of time~
Only nature could ever dare
Create such a beautiful sight sublime~
I stood in silence and total amazement
At what nature it could do~
If left alone in natural time
To create such magnificence it is true~
I felt as if I should not even walk
Upon such a heavenly place~
As every inch of it was a masterpiece
To as much mark it I felt would be a disgrace~
I crept as light as possible
As I made my gentle way~
And took ever so many mental photographs
In the form of memories of that day~
Life their was abundantly so
But so small and mostly out of sight~
Shadows hung and wild birds sung
As I imagined this sight within moonlight~
Mosses every shape and size and shade
Of the color green there was to see~
The silence there in dampest air
Spoke it's opinion to there me~
To leave without disturbing at all
And set this aged perfection free~
Years of growth and years of time
It took to create and to simply be~
A place that had not been visited
And had remained so for the longest time~
I left the way I had come in
And took with me only a memory ever so sublime~

Terrence Michael Sutton
Copyright 2018

Blue skies, dew lies on the greenest grass.
Meek flies, deer ties among the scented floret.
Standing through the foggiest mornings,
Though falling in the dampest nights.
You will always be my favorite young one
The first summer rose blooming is done.

for the writer,
for the poet,
acts of love
are never enough.

we know that
sometimes the
best way
to express
those words:

"i love you,"

is in print  
right here
on the page.

we know that
we can
light a
forest fire
upon the
dampest of
kindling
wood.

we know that
we can
create a
sunny day
on the
darkest of
nights.

we know that
we can
express those
3 words
better than
any other
with a
slow methodical
glide of
our fingertips.

we are poets
that love
to write.

but we are
poets that,

love to live
what we
write.

we know that
we bring life
to what was
once dead.

we ALWAYS
do this.

so i ask you...

are you alive?