hansel – lois e. linkens

mother-and-daughter

the back door stands open,
muddy footprints sketched in a scamper
over the coir mat,
earthy clumps scraped off small shoes
lie snuggled between the fibres.

grassy tangles trail from garden to kitchen,
kitchen to corridor,
corridor to shoe rack.
she sighs –
one of hansel’s worse ideas.

she’s the mother at the window,
where faded yellow curtains hang,
limply framing her weathered features
in the glassy reflection.

the early evening sun paints her face,
like a buttercup held under a smooth chin
by innocent fingers.

dusty rays illuminate
the murky rainbows
of glass cleaner and jay cloth.

mama, moving mouths murmur,
mama.

she picks at her dry skin,
red and flaky from rubber gloves and dish soap,
plastic cups and plates.

she has swapped smoking
for swaddling,
lingerie for lullabies,
bottled perfume for baby powder,
naps for nappies.

mama, mama –
the shouts and flashes of life before
jump up like a jack-in-the-box.

soapy water splashes,
cries crackle.
she forgets her wet skirts
and takes herself
to the part of herself
that needs her
most.

(lois e. linkens)

Commonality-Max Meunier/Dissociative Void

once we have

outlived

our bourn indignation

why must we trudge

through the crux

of man’s blunder

pandering wares 

of despondent disrepair

 

as figments

of desolate filaments

fading

 

once we have crossed

from the realm 

of idyll

into the abysmal

dominion of truth

who shall remain

to court these afflictions

but the ghastly cast-offs

from our reflection’s fallout

 

disrobed

and deboned

we drift

as detritus 

plagued with the pangs

of our own

rote requitement

 

not even the trope

of our soul’s transmutation

can stay the aggrievance 

that all shall sustain


[Max states: “I write about the things going on in my life. I am a feminist, humanist, cat loving musician bound by whimsy and the incessant analysis of hyper-vigilant observations.  I am obsessed with words and rhythmically woven wordplay.” We are honored to have him as a member of our tribe.]

Max Meunier Poetry

 

 

Sudden Denouement/Secret First Draft Divergent Literature Writing Contest– Submissions Accepted March 1st Through March 31st

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

Unpublished/Original work

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 Sudden Denouement Literary Collective and its sister sites Secret First Draft and The Whisper and The Roar are forums for divergent literature that we hope excite and challenge you.

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 May 15, 2017.

My Witch Friend-ohellino

ohellino

She was into the sort of witchcraft
That involved books
And incense
And I kind of liked that
Sitting there in all that nonsense
Not fucked up
Slitting wrists and saying:  Fuck why do I exist?
She was into the sort of astronomy
Known as astrology
“You had me at dog star” I said
And she scrunched up her entire face
And pulled out her tarot cards
To read the universe
“Why would you read the universe?” I asked
“What do you read?” she said rubbing a crystal
“Books” I said
And she scoffed

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Drawing Down the Moon-Christine Ray/Brave and Reckless

Brave and Reckless

Bare alabaster arms raised to the heavens

I sing the ancient songs to the endless night

I draw down the moon from the velvet

Cradle her in my arms like a babe

Bathe in her icy luminance

Draw it deep into my body

Until my skin is translucent

Cool to the touch

I am filled with the light

Of a thousand stars

And the wolves howl

To the empty sky

You contain the fire of the sun

Golden and crimson

It slips through your veins

Ripples beneath your skin

Dances in your eyes

Amber that holds my image fixed

We are holy, consecrated

Equals worthy of each other

Performing an ancient rite

That cleanses the earth

And ignites the night

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Skin-OldePunk/RamJet Poetry

RamJet Poetry

girl-with-gothic-tattoos

Throwing rock

breaking

midnight shine

gleaming on the bone

A little shudder

a small whimper

carnivore smiles atone

cut wrist feeds psychotic skin

my lover is my greatest sin

I own the underside

put you on my back

for another ride

melting faces fear for me

guarding the treasured

awaiting your high tide

want you just to come and see

you can brutalize my make-believe

I need to cauterizemy love

for you, stitch the wounds

left in your wake

my soul is on life support

how much more can it

take

waiting forever to begin

the stories

on your skin

I just do not know what I’m in

caught with the legends under your skin

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Gathering Dust – S.L. Heaton/The Lithium Chronicles

S.L. Heaton/The Lithium Chronicles

The Lithium Chronicles

I wore it for you every day for eight years…strong and proud…hoping you would see…but you never did and made me feel as if I wasn’t worthy. So my heart just sat there on my sleeve gathering dust and my knees became bloodied and bruised from crawling after you…begging…a futile attempt to acquire what I so desperately needed. Epiphanies are strange…like sour candies…bitter at the onset and sweet in the center and it took eight more years to hit that sweet spot…in the meantime I took that old dusty heart and tucked it away like a keepsake in a treasure chest, for what I don’t know, but it no longer pined for you…and the pleas that fell on deaf ears would never again be uttered from my silent mouth because I realized that standing felt so much better than groveling. And again, epiphanies are strange sometimes, like the one that…

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