Coverage of the election gives me
Orwellian style nightmares
we are separated by metal rods
and bars of water,
we are submerged in cages
on the way to
the quarantine zone,
which try as it might
Each day, there’s a new exhibit
when we are admitted
into the long hallway
for the movie screening,
it’s a tacky abstract.
Two days later, when we exit:
Thursday’s is a row of severed hands
Friday’s is a stock photo of a woman
running in a wedding dress
I wake up and know
we are all married to this man
and there will be no turning back
i wake up and I try to go back
to dreaming again
[Georgia Park is 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.]
i don’t remember if i ever loved myself.
but all alone i loved, once.
i’ve slept naked, a tiger with nightmares, an animal on a leash in a burrow of fevers. night’s where i woke up & couldn’t move, because no matter where i left your memories, they found a tunnel back into my chest.
another dusk with double-espresso van gogh & it burns my drowsy throat to know the fluorescent pictures tacked to the back of my eyelids like postcards that sunk with the titanic, wish you were here, are reaching for me from that hole forever.
before my eyes were stolen & my mouth was packed with soil, i’d have a yellow american spirit & think of freedom.
those were the days. those were my days. those w e re.
& now they’re not & never will again.
I read the
Writing on the wall
Like sleet on my bare skin
Ice crystals that burn
And freeze on contact
I recognize your
I long to
Cans of spray paint
From my battered
Connect the dots
With hunter green
Soften the edges
Silver and mauve
Rewrite the narrative
But this is not
I am unsure of
On your turf
Concrete and steel
To my 3rd floor
Rows of deadlocks
On the door
Never sure if
Their purpose is to
Keep others out
Or keep my creative
In this room
Of my own
What I want
What I need
And lose myself
To the process
Etched with light
A thing of
That you may
She is an aspiring badass
Overwhelmed is for Wednesdays,
between day old bread and another
She drops it into cracked glass
where it sinks and stays
contained and safe to study,
like a strange or elusive bird
she has been meaning to watch.
Oh, look at you pretty birdie,
terrifying birdie; she’s caged you now.
And it flutters, wingless, in the bottom
of her grandmother’s before four o’clock
crystal that gives her permission to sigh
in acceptance as it cradles overwhelming
so beautifully, right before she throws it
back to meet the aftermath of underwhelmed,
and a Tuesday night blowjob.
[Nicole Lyons is creator of The Lithium Chronicles, as well as being an editor and writer for Sudden Denouement. As always, we are honored by her presence.]
Sudden Denouement Literary Collective and Secret First Draft are holding a joint Writing Contest in the month of March to elicit new writers for the Collective.
Writing Prompt: March Madness
Each entry should be more than 50 words but less than 500
Each writer may submit 1 to 3 (maximum) pieces of writing for consideration
Submissions will be accepted: 3/1/2017 through 3/31/2017
Full prize information to be announced soon!
1st Place Winner will be granted membership in the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective
2nd, 3rd and 4th Place Runners-ups will be granted membership in the Secret First Draft Collective.
Send your submissions with your name, your pen name (if applicable), the address for your blog and a short biography (1 to 3 sentences to): Suddendenouement@gmail.com
The top three posts will be published on Sudden Denouement and the top five posts will be published on Secret First Draft.
Finalists will be contacted by Sudden Denouement no later than April 30, 2017.
We are islands in a field where the only source of light comes from the moon. There are no buildings, no cars, only that lone rock above our heads that has witnessed everything yet never uttered so much as a word in return. Kissing your lips and then the wet bark of the tree closest to us, I remember a story my grandad told me as a child. It concerned a tree in acemetery somewhere in St Albans, and how if you managed to run around it twelve times before the bells stopped chiming the midnight hour, then a ghost would rise from the ground and shake your hand. Linking my fingers with yours and doing my best to run despite it being so slippery because of all the mud from the recent rain, you tell me that it won’t work because it’s only that particular tree in St Albans…
View original post 304 more words