Breath-is-relative-to-time by Aakriti Kuntal

Wind presses against my feet

Crevices are moments too

moments of walking, walking,

running, grinding, running

I dreamt that I’m a treadmill

Life running with her long legs 

Her long legs too long for my retreating skin

You said that time is convoluted

Like a robin in frenzy, scissors binding skin

You said, across floating dreamless states

of my rotating head, you said that time 

is a disaster, that everything is already washed

Blank white, crepe folding in fingers, 

fingers outrunning air, always trying to grasp at inevitability 

You said with cerulean lips, diamonds engulfing skies

amidst shores of blue, sparkling blue, sitting inside a stray boat,

humming inside grand oceans

You said that all life is just a long heavy breath

Go slow

Aakriti Kuntal is a 24-year-old emerging poetess from the country of veritable colors and stratified rainbows, India. A Network Engineer by profession she has been writing for over a year now. She enjoys nature, music, all things geeky and all things art.

Aakriti writes for the Writings of Aakriti Kuntal, and her work has been published in 1947 Literary Journal, Duane’s PoeTree blog, Visual Verse and Indian Periodical among others.

Need for a sick bag – Nathan McCool

I’m a rare coated stag. Gut shot for sport and
forgotten in a field of
painted moonlight.
The hunt is over, the storm is here. Beauty
all sheathed inside a gun barrel…
I think I’m dead now. I need a new scene.

I’m the out of tune keys on a piano, that
some rusted god keeps playing before he
heads off to a bookstore
where he constantly asks,

“Got any remedial shit with no substance?”

“Yeah. Check any shelf” the faceless
pseudo-librarian says back.

And the more he reads and the more he reads and
the more and more…
it’s just more hope he loses;
arms just getting tired of holding pages
burdened with
cliché poems and redundant stories.
(Have I read this before?)

“But really? You cut down a tree for this shit?”

It had more real poetry beforehand.

Now the rusted god goes to sleep and
now I am the rusted god.
And the only thing either of us still hopes for
is that if I publish a book it never comes here.

Not to visit.
Not to fuck.
And especially not to die.


Tucked away behind some shit book
about learning to love yourself I find
Nick Cave’s “Sick Bag Song”…
Now that’s a god damn jewel!

[Nathan McCool is the dark lord over on Instagram at God Of Dregs.]

Mick Hugh “Casket on the Fulcrum” Junto Magazine



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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