this is an educated
refined, cultured, poem
fit to clothe a queen’s body
radiant enough to sit on a king’s head
no doubt,
the king’d head on a silver plate

this is elegant, truthful,
and most dignified as robes
and gold threads on a priest’s mitre
and ermine round the waists

this is immaculate,
probing, penetrative and sedate
so well-constructed, traditional
so cast into meter and scanned
so organised and adept
as a gynaecologists’s fingers

and last but not least
it is reverend, respectful and silent
as full of respect as are holy poems and sonnets
and poems all fit into good form and shape
and thus it refrains from 4-letter words
though - ****! - sometimes it slips and falls
like a drunkard, into the gutters

*but it is the fault of the terrain

Even such is time, which takes in trust
Our youth, our joys, and all we have,
And pays us but with age and dust,
Who in the dark and silent grave
When we have wandered all our ways
Shuts up the story of our days,
And from which earth, and grave, and dust
The Lord will raise me up, I trust.

Out the window
(Speckled glass)
Lives being lived
(I'm sitting on my ***)

On the kitchen clock
(When will I paint these beige walls?)
Time being ticked.
(So it goes, after all)

And even on the street,
That kitchen clock does tick,
Madly, furiously ticking-too fast
As a life quickly fades
(But not mine this time)

We (and I) don't care
'Cause we weren't there
We(I)'ve no idea
How to feel.

One life's a tragedy
Two lives are jaw dropping.
A sports team is urban terror.
Fifty lives, a massacre,
And at one hundred it doesn't matter anymore

Rest in peace,
Dear lives seen
(On speckled glass)
I'm not afraid to die|
           Because humans are bad at counting.

This is your life as a performance.
Light on.
It’s the horseshoe necklace tickling your neck.
And rhythm in between steps.
                                                            Like tomorrow could die if we sidestep the question mark.
You say “hold your breath.”
                           “What about your future?”
             You say, “ That’s irresponsible. Sit in a giant box covered with lies.”
“Shut up play thing. I need to work. You need to work.”
Full of something else-
                          We are all full of something else.
                                          Bones.
                                                      Blood.
                                                                 Grandma’s Belgian waffles
                                                                           Freak show?
                                                                                         “I’m stuck.” Jack screamed but the child
                                                                                                       Shut down the headphones.
                                                                                                                    Inside the circus.


Wait until he’s let you out!
Poor Jack.
Here it comes.



Wind up the velocity.
Elongate your stride.
Jibber my jabber.
Here comes Jack.
And she baked cookies with your initials on top
Your name happens to be “Untitled”
So there’s a giant question mark.
Full of dough and sugar.
It tasted like Jack’s defecation.
Delicious is mutilation.
The East cries at night for the attention of vapor.
See the beautiful sunset bleeding into itself.
See the orange sky because
Of cans soot and damage.
The sunset smacks the horizon.
See the orange sky because they wouldn’t call you back-
Chained to a tree out west.



The transition will arrive.
Like an annoying child sitting between our see saw
We won’t go anywhere.





Until they leave and
SMACK.
I’ve made it ‘round the curve.
But I threw up a little syrup.
“Shoot for the dot.” And SMACK me harder.
And SMACK the shoes.
And SMACK those beating bleeding blood bags.
But don’t smack your gum.
Wrap yourself in pearls but put your ***** feet into heels.
Give me something that’s dreadfully whimsical.
Jack has made it out alive.
With a smile.
But the little boy hears his cry.
Grasping for life-
Shut tight.

Light off.

If I were a writer
I’d actively seek
A mild patina
A mad mystique
I’d write about death
As something good
I’d sign my name
Edgar Allen Atwood

If I were a writer
There’d be Tom and Huck
A great big world
That didn’t give a ****
Bout the little guy
Floating down the main
And I’d call myself
Charley Dickens Twain

If I was a writer
I’d have a golden plume
I’d write about
That day of doom
I’d write about
Laughing at fear
And I’d call myself
Mordecai Shakespeare

If I was a writer
And I had a page
I’d write about
The good old days
‘Bout what I’d ‘ve done
On a day with you
And I’d sign my name
And I’d sign yours too

Her long brown hair hung
occluding forty-seven percent of her face
and her one eye
looked a little manic.

It was slow and sweet
for a while
but she had been
gradually gaining momentum.

I am watching her
carefully and
waiting, really
for that moment.

Suddenly she stops.

She raises her hands up
clenched.
It looks like she is going to
pull her own hair
and then her right fist
slams into my ribs
followed by a left
and a right and a left.
A barrage of little hurts
pouring out
machine gun frenzied.

She digs her nails into my chest,
her mouth is twisted,
her teeth clenched,
I can see muscles
in one jaw line twitch.
More hair falls over her
Countenance.
Her hips move furious  

and then
Sensuous wails of red light,
screams of sumptuous green,
bright yellow trembling,
and electric blue rippling
like bright neon

She cools and dims
she collapses
into me
sobbing
and I can feel
salty wet
itchy dripping down my skin

I cry too
never having seen someone
this...



Michael L Sutter

the release has come.
a grateful breath.
retaining walls are
coming down
i light a cigarette.

suddenly, i can see.
all the reasons fell in to me.
close the door,
i'm not coming home.

out at night
i set the pace,
calling
for
a little grace...
i light another smoke.

i softly whisper to myself
god, i'm glad i made it.
i'll think of you
from time to time.
your crimson heart
and selfish lines.
i walk
alone
it starts to rain.
you
might need a smoke.

It is amazing how soon forever ends.
We promised to stay friends,

however,

there is a postcard I will never send.
It is the one that lovingly pretends,

                                                      ­                        "I wish you were here."

The birds they sang
at the break of day
Start again
I heard them say
Don't dwell on what
has passed away
or what is yet to be.
Ah the wars they will
be fought again
The holy dove
She will be caught again
bought and sold
and bought again
the dove is never free.
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in.
We asked for signs
the signs were sent:
the birth betrayed
the marriage spent
Yeah the widowhood
of every government --
signs for all to see.
I can't run no more
with that lawless crowd
while the killers in high places
say their prayers out loud.
But they've summoned, they've summoned up
a thundercloud
and they're going to hear from me.
Ring the bells that still can ring ...
You can add up the parts
but you won't have the sum
You can strike up the march,
there is no drum
Every heart, every heart
to love will come
but like a refugee.
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in.
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in.
That's how the light gets in.
That's how the light gets in.