Howling Down Hallways – Matthew D. Eayre

Greedily this heart reaches
and none may sway its purpose
in pieces, or complete
a want becoming need
will sustain until the night feeds
burning hunger,
churning thunder,
turning and tearing asunder
what God has gifted

Pointed looks and double-entendre
hang heavily over the top of eyes
too honest, much too open,
no secrets will be kept

Voraciously this mind seeks to consume
hearts and hands and skinned knees
yes and now and yes, please
give and take and
oh goodness gracious, me

Memories of desires left unfulfilled
echo meaningfully in salacious reverberation,
if nothing else keeps the road vanishing then simple lust
might fill the tank

An older man,
but still a man.
The term ‘pervert’ has been used.

Perversion is a matter of perspective
and understanding of physical existence,
what is perverse to the fly
is commonplace to the spider
and the robin notices only in passing

Greedily this heart demands to be taken
stirred, handled, used, abused, shaken

time is a poor excuse for complacency

an old wolf,
but still a wolf

I’ll eat ya.

Matthew D Eayre is newly planted in Houston, Texas and hoping to grow roots. A lifelong lover of words and language, he writes every chance he gets when not delivering smiles or spending time with his loving wife and family. Matthew has only one rule in life and in writing; it has to be real. He writes from personal experience about life, love and loss. He bridges the light spectrum from darkness to light, hoping that somewhere out there he reaches those who need to be reached. You can find more of his brilliant work on his site, Uneven Streets Studios, and his Facebook page Poetry of Monsters

Grope-Introducing Basilike Pappa


Doubled over

curled up

drained down to my secret nerves

I grope for


Just need to close this window

the wind must never see me

cuddle dust bunnies

Under the bed

I’m an old diary

the wind must never read me

                                                            (even rats are ashamed to be in your woodshed)

Doubled over

curled up

melted down to asymmetries

I grope for


If I were a fairy

would anyone steal my wings

Hold me steady


commonsense me


                                                                        (what would the neighbors say)

The fortunate, the meek!

How fast they dream

If only they could tread – what’s the word

                                                                        (softly: like ghosts wearing slippers)

Softly is the word

No doors banging

no phones ringing

no laughter creeping in this cellar

where half a century is turning to sour grapes

(melancholy is a bad performance)

Kindly shut up

You know I love roses and wet grass

and even consider the lilies of the field as sisters

and that sometimes I hope deeper

for enchanted chariots

the truest sandalwood

a lake that lays shining in the afternoon

Then life comes back for a bite

And I

doubled over

curled up

drained and used and fucked up



Basilike Pappa lives in Greece. She likes her coffee black, her walls painted green and blue, her books old or new. She despises yellow curtains and red tape. She can’t live without chocolate, flowers and her dog. Places she can be found are: kitchen, office, living room. If she’s not at home, I don’t know where she is. You can find Basilike up late with a notebook in the Silent Hour.

Across the Street- Georgia Park

Is it my tendrils of smoke, the scent of my shampoo

or my dog’s panting that rises up to the third floor apartment

of the brick building across the street


where you poke your head out of that window

to ask me if id like something to eat,

something specific, always;

pizza, a meatball sub,

or something else entirely

as when you inquire if im dirty

and would like the bath with bubbles

you’re already drawing,

would my dog like to come with me?


and I know it’s not just me.

that alleyway’s past was marked

by heavy foot traffic

before your inquiries,

and it’s not just women;

a fact that comforts me.


You are well taken care of

attired in bright sweaters,

warm and clean.  And gracious

enough to always offer something

i catch you alone sometimes,

bent forward and whispering


It’s clear that you come from a family

and that when we engage in conversations

you speak past me and of nothing solid

so i keep walking, until eventually

you counterfeit an anti-greeting


You say ok, well, I’ll see you!

desperation ringing out

as if we had agreed.


Georgia Park is the creator of Private Bad Thoughts, curator of Whisper and the Roar a feminist literary collective, and a writer for Sudden Denouement. She is a wonderful poet with an enormous heart. We can’t imagine this journey without her. Please check out more of her wonderful work.


Sudden Denouement Anthology Interview Jasper Kerkau and Georgia Park (3 Parts)

Georgia’s personal website is She is curator of, as well as being a writer/editor for Sudden Denouement. This is the first of the Sudden Denouement interviews. Our anthology is coming out in very near future. I would suggest everyone to take a minute and explore the amazing writing of Georgia Park.

Meet Sudden Denouement Collective Member Jimmi Campkin

The editors of Sudden Denouement Literary Collective know that our strength is our writers. We hope that you enjoy getting to know them through our new Writer Interview Series.

What name do you write under?

Jimmi Campkin

In what part of the world do you live?

I am currently living in a small seaside village called Whitby, in the North East of England.  Whitby is a charming and beautiful little place – little changed in 850 years – with narrow winding streets, ancient buildings, a ruined Abbey on the cliffs and wee cobbled roads – as well as long beaches and the power and majesty of the sea, which crashes over the town during storms or is as still as glass when calm. Whitby also has connections to literature – Lewis Carroll stayed here a few times, but more famously Bram Stoker was also a visitor and set much of the beginning of Dracula in the town, inspired by the view from his hotel window.

Tell us about yourself. 

Born in 1983, lived in the same dying post-industrial town called Dunstable until I was nineteen – a town which, in the spirit of hiraeth, I still have affection for but I know I can never revisit.  Spent most of my childhood playing alone or with a few close friends, writing stories and inventing hundreds more in my own head.  Dunstable still haunts many of my stories – characters, locations and experiences make up a big chunk of my work, and it is a town that I find difficult to fully extricate myself from, and yet I know I will never live there again.

Between the ages of 16 and 18 I had a knife pulled on me three times, and a few other incidents in which people wished to cause myself (and sometimes my friends) considerable harm.  It’s that kind of area.

I moved to York attending the University of York St John in 2003 studying English Literature; where I largely ignored the dull course texts and bummed around reading Catcher In The Rye, wearing eyeliner and reading poetry in coffee shops.

Yeah, I know…

However during this time I decided to become A Proper Writer after getting a very high mark for a Creative Writing module.  Since then I have bounced from job to job, town to town, taking up art and photography, playing the guitar, trying to find the point of it all but it always comes back to words and images and the love of them.

Where do you publish your work?

Writing: Jimmi Campkin

Photography: jimmicampkin

When did you begin your blog and what motivated you start it?

I began my blog in it’s current incarnation around 2012/13.  I had been going through a writing drought, and I felt a new platform with a clean slate might inspire me, although it took a long time for me to feel comfortable writing again.  I’ve had an online blog/website since the late-90’s though, when I had two long-running Livejournal accounts which mixed my real life with fiction…. something I still do now.

What inspires/motivates you to keep blogging on your site?

As grandiose as this sounds, I feel as though I have been put here to create.  There is nothing else that I am (relatively) good at, and also enjoy doing.  I can’t rewire a plug, I can’t swim and I cannot climb the greasy company pole in a job I detest for fifty years and retire miserable.  Whether it is photography or words, I need to do this or there is no point.

When did you join the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective?

I am a newcomer to the collective, and no less humbled by it.

How did you find your way to Sudden Denouement?

I had already heard of SD, but felt slightly intimidated by the quality and quantity of words already on there.  However SK Nicholas – one of my closest friends, if not my absolute closest, and someone I have known since we were both in single digits age-wise – recommended that I try and join, and put in some very encouraging words on my behalf.

What does “Divergent Literature” mean to you?

Divergent to me is something challenging, and far from the safe and cosy world that seems to perpetuate the shelves of modern bookstores these days.  When something awful like 50 Shades can immediately generate a thousand copycats flooding the market, and the gaps are filled with dry crime, romantic slush and ghost-written autobiographies by people still in their thirties, it is important to still have a gateway to fiction that makes you think and feel and that sometimes grabs you by the shirt, forces you against a wall and demands to be seen.  Fiction that sometimes doesn’t work, but that still merits a thoughtful response.  Words and stories and poems that are brave enough to fly close to the sun, knowing that their wings may melt.  Divergent is to not be afraid of a heroic failure in the pursuit of reaching out and touching the fingertips of someone looking for a fellow lost soul to be their guardian in the Big Bad Real World of white picket fences and Donald Trump.  To want to be Divergent is the desire to connect with Human Beings as opposed to Hard Capital and Sales Demographics.

Jasper Kerkau frequently talks about Sudden Denouement writers using the ‘secret language’. What is it?

I can’t tell you.

Tell us about your literary influences?

Iain Banks was an early influence on my writing, particularly The Crow Road and The Wasp Factory.  Jeffrey Eugenides The Virgin Suicides and Douglas Coupland’s Life After God feature sentences that make me want to climb on my roof and punch the air in triumph.  In recent years I have discovered Bukowski and his anarchic commentary on the Down Life, and even higher than Charles B, I need to acknowledge Donald Ray Pollock whose works based around his life in deepest Ohio are beautiful, poetic and sympathetic to people who have been forgotten by society – I rate him above Bukowski and I rate Bukowski high.  Although this smacks of a weird form of nepotism, SK Nicholas has always been an influence.  I am fortunate enough to have been reading his work since we were both teenagers with Livejournals and I’ve always admired his words.  Lastly, I think JG Ballard possessed the finest and most prescient mind of anyone I have ever read.  Although I never attempt to write like him, stories like High Rise and my personal favourite Vermillion Sands are examples of what literature can do when a mind is unshackled and allowed to fly.

Has any of your work been published in print?  How did that happen?

My work has featured in literary magazines such as Gravel, and a few others that have since passed peacefully away.  I have also written for various fanzines and independent publications.

What are your writing goals? 

My desire is to have a novel and a collection of short stories published.  I would also like to see my Sanctuary series republished in a format that is larger and more affordable to showcase my photography.  Ultimately, it is about making connections.  I want my work to be seen by as many eyes as possible, in the hope that I can inspire someone as much as my inspirations have driven me.

Which pieces of your own writing are your favorites?

Painted Fingernails

Oily Jeans

Death Sun




What else would like to share about your writing, Sudden Denouement, or yourself?

“What am I in the eyes of most people – a nonentity, an eccentric, or an unpleasant person – somebody who has no position in society and will never have; in short, the lowest of the low.  All right, then – even if that were absolutely true, then I should one day like to show by my work what such an eccentric, such a nobody, has in his heart” 

Vincent van Gogh

“It is a time of tons of verbiage, activity, consumption.  Which condition is better for the world at large I shall not venture to discuss.  But I do know, that many of those who are driven to this life are desperately searching for those pockets of silence where we can root and grow.  We must all hope we find them”

Mark Rothko






untitled- Daffni Gingerich

On the edge of the room his hands tighten around my neck. That is when I have so much to say. Finding words is a fragile thing for me. And when my eyes cross everything flits away along with my energy. I am silence. Death taunting him for just a sip of his…. The race. The cow on her side swollen still milking. Drained with history. With talks of saving the world. I feel my eyes twitch behind the lids. I see the men I’ve danced into the bedroom for proof. For proof of my existence. I exist I exist I EXIST. Then I don’t. Not anymore. Not lifefull or lifeless. Silenced. Floating. Not suffering/just quiet. And when they apply the straps to hold me down my heart pounds speak speak speakValium- 10mg administered at 2:45am by TJspeak speak speakValium- 10mg administered at 3am by TJ Restraints applied- Patient sleeping. Asleep again. Quiet again. But silenced for the last time.

Daffni Gingerich says simply that she “is a writer.” You can read more of her mesmerizing prose at Daffinblog.

Threnody- Diana Korlaet

some divinations in tea leaves dwell

but I prefer the delicate scatter

of incense flecks on rib curves, swell

the breath between gasp and ashen matter


furtively I reassemble the dissonant cinders

yet they meld in stubborn sapient array

the pattern sought, lady destiny hinders

granting one final passionate foray


each second embraces a hollow echo

our sighs shaped in somber elegy

lips lock, such a lacquered libretto

will to memory languish, lamentably


as eyes fire in this breath held night

we suppress the urge to weep, so fight

against the approaching call of light

then bid you farewell

sweet acolyte


Visit The Wandering Armadillo to read more of Diana’s writing