Mick Hugh “Casket on the Fulcrum” Junto Magazine

 

mickhugh

One of my favorite writer’s Mick Hugh, also a writer/editor for Sudden Denouement, recently had a short story published in Junto Magazine. The title of the short story is “Casket on the Fulcrum.” It is indicative of the kind of work we have come to expect from Mick Hugh. I would hope our writers and readers would take a second and read Mick’s story. I am often overwhelmed by the writing of Mick Hugh. His potential is limitless. Please check out his site Mick’s Neon Fog.

 

Poets sleep awake

Christina Strigas

Photo by @dan_cretu from Instagram

I need my naps

I am a modern poet

in semi-deep sleep

never fully awake

dreaming about pre-raphaelites and the Rosettis

still thinking

in all the colors

you left behind.

I hug you close

yet you disappear

into orange clouds

and sunset lawns.

I want to forget

the long trails

to your heart

and climb up

your mountain

to kiss your eyes

to sleep.

Alas, I slumber awake.

Awake, yet not.

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Antenna Guts Missing the Iron Pubic

Charlie Zero The Poet


The pyramid inveighed.

The hallucination sconce,
the pharaohs block arbitrary –
pull out the defeated parallel world.

Depression intoxicates
your laced orb.
Fidelity develops by exploded monopoly.
Untrammeled voidness,
slowly repeated missing,
you look like a turned ripped feature.

Antenna guts;
trashed by the iron pubic.
The evil me tore the glitch thereof.
A canopy erection,
a flambeau paralysis,

The voyage punctuation
composed of rheum beings.
Above you
tongues commit humility.
A flappy neurological citrus –
direct voice-over congregation
of poised disruptor whim,

Corn chasms
fuck through the goddess power.
We belong to the self-annoyed nausea.

Copyright © 2016 Charlie Zero the Poet

All rights Reserved.

No part of Antenna Guts Missing the Iron Pubic – may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means: electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without…

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èirigh na grèine / sunrise

Karen Bain - Writer

I walk towards infinity. how good to

finally be one with all in me. to lie down,

in cool rained grass. to seek no more.

to lay my limbs among the roots

of trees. s t r e t c h i n g o u t the dusk

filled sky. to bleed forth dreams,

into the sap of man. let go, to breathe

to die. death as journey,

the withered path inside. returning.

recognition, under towering oak.

connecting roots, that flow beyond coming spring,

return us to the blood of life. the beating

damp earths soothe.

we whisper memory into the wind,

as overhead, crow flies free,

awakening earths sunrise.

©Copyright Karen Bain 2017.All Rights Reserved.

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Ringer

Max Meunier

when i feel
that faint vibration

hearken from forsaken nature

sudden darkness

terror sheer

arrest my person

ominous
are pending horrors

worse than that

unwitting silence

whispered cancer

spitting death

no
i will not
ever answer

there’s no need
to leave a message

you can presage your doom
elsewhere

sorry
but i’m home right now

organizing my states
of displeasure

measuring this misery

calculating the conditions
of my systematic masochism

not so much

in truth
i am detached
from each day

dreaming up
ideals to upload

fervent feels
erode my station

distantly
a life awaits

grant me
for one fleeting moment

anything
but what i am

maybe i can find the beauty
through its bastardized facade

pass it off
in profane pennings

god
i hope this all will end

one would think
decisions
of this magnitude

would prelude
such deserved fate

[pictured: Viktor Tsoi]

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Stretch-marks-on-the-face-of-spring

Writings of Aakriti Kuntal

‘ Time collects in the circle of this wound. Here you shall sprout:
full of color, full of vigor, complete as all light. ‘

Mother, I counted your skin
like the ceaseless motion
of tongue assessing the irregularity of jaw

You are a convex liquid armchair
rocking back and forth
time squeezing your lap
Your seeking hands are like lizards,
stagnant, then running
Cerulean eyes, cheeks of crepe
Palm trees circling
the diaphragm
to form
my pillow of orange lights

You said through feverishly gray lips
that spring is here
that a flower has birthed in your womb,
water, turquoise pools
Mediterranean swirls and violet streams
That you have solved
the anomaly of friction
And now you are afloat
in a vacuum
long, large
and quieter every second

I watched through umbilical
blinds and colloidal irises
Meteors in your baked body
I watched you detonate
You are a quark
Motionless

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Blue Moon & Human Glue

S. K. Nicholas

purple-2099144_1920

When it gets into me, I grind my teeth and stoop over until my nose bleeds. When the blood trickles through my fingers, I grin and bite and chew and those who get too close are reduced to mere ashes. When the fluid is in my belly one version recedeswhile the other comes racing to the surface. This thing inside of me, it calls out your name. It wants you more than you could ever know. It puts you on a pedestal, makes you an icon. Maybe a jewel. Maybe a lamb. Maybe the lexicon of these secrets that keep bubbling away unseen. And how they bubble and pop each second of every day along with every drop of saliva that drips from my mouth into the palms of these dirty hands so it swirls with my blood and sweat creating portals that resemble the part of your body I…

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