Pool Party – Jasper Kerkau

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

greta-nissen

At some point, towards the end of the night, I get into the pool with my clothes on. Adults are on the patio talking in hushed tones about divorce and lost nights from the early-nineties. Kids laugh and squeal, chasing each other through the house and around the pool. I hold my breath and float to the bottom, thinking of the mess I have to clean up. My life is falling apart. I gave my debit card for someone to get orange juice an hour ago. I ponder this and pull myself back up and repeat the process several times meditating on the mess, the residue from ribs, beer bottles, mistakes, dead ends. Eventually I sit on the edge of the pool and try to light a cigarette. My fingers are wet. The cigarette breaks. My f’ing luck!  My son waves with a big smile, he is elated. I love…

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Burning at the Stake – SRP

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

back-alley
Burning at the Stake – SRP
when you’re sure in your ways
no one can tell you
the truth
and we’re right at all costs
as desperation sets in
when I’m cornered and pinned
is when you feel no shame
you look unsure of yourself
let me give you a hand
let me open the door
help me to understand
when I’m engulfed in the blaze
no one will tell you why
and we’ve struggled and lost 
desperation’s a friend
and they are smiling at me
because
its the 
end
SRP
[SRP is a co-creator of Sudden Denouement and driving force in the collective. He is a musician, a writer, and a friend.]

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let’s be strangers in new orleans – samantha lucero

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

next-day sore, fabled romance memories we’ll never have again hang themselves over the morgue of myshoulders. they sling there on the murderess hews of my collarbones like a noose. over the rubble of me like a shapeless dress, they cling. my sadness is a one-size fits all.

there’s a bad mystery of stitched up, prayer-words smothered & held hostageunderneath the humid crucifix gameof your nails. maybe we could be in love.your calloused hand, my beating throat. memories are ghosts that can physically embrace me; embrace us.

likedirt-sweat in a ghost-tour day of that hot mouth street in New Orleans, where the grinning specter-folks wanna stay like pastedgaslight posts in booze-colored hurricane beads. where there’s oiled-up candles in the balmy night lining decatur& quivering tarot cards in a sweaty palm telling me i’m meant for greatness. hail the votives for a virgin or a saint-chief, & watch palpitations at…

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Sibilant Nonsense – Olde Punk

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

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Sibilant Nonsense – Olde Punk (Ramjet Poetry)

I feel I’ve listened
To something
That means nothing
Yet everything
I will leave you
Before you leave me
The mountain calls
And her heart
Is bared
The wind cries my name
Over and over and over
Do I dare answer?
I should go….
I’m lost and cannot find my way back
Is there anyone who can guide me?
Drive my hand into the treasure of despair
Let’s talk business
I don’t think you will ever understand
Just exactly what it is I am trying to say
I don’t think anyone will
I need something I can taste
Moonlit sun
Gasping
I dreamed I was alive once
Only to awaken comatose
Adrift on a sea of sorrow
I contemplate the tomorrow….

Looking for silver
In the sands of time

__

[Olde Punk writes for RamJet Poetry]

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Residual

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

Regina-Kay-Walters-Robert-Ben-RhoadesResidual

By pbbr

There’s an orange light from the window and I see it every night on my walk home. I wonder what’s inside. I can see a silhouette through the matte cedar sill and sometimes the shape, usually still and lithe, slinks back from sight as I stroll past. The loft is a ramshackle Moorish revival affair, wrapped in creeping kudzu, nestled otherwise nondescript in a grove of fragrant gardenia maybe twenty metres off Decatur. Some say it’s been empty for years; others tell different.

There’s an elderly man who lives there with two faces, the plump secretary at my accounting firm says. One that’s normal and another one on the back of his head. He’s gaunt as a scarecrow, and maybe Creole, although no one knows for sure. But don’t knock on his door. He’s been criminally ill for some time. And he sees things behind him.

Madness…

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Not to love, then – Georgia Park

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

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Not to love, then by Georgia Park (Private Bad Thoughts)

He can’t love himself
until he’s filthy stinkin’ rich
with heat and a toilet

I can’t love me
until I’m published

so we call to remind each other
not to love anyone else, then
either
until these things happen

I write for his latest business scheme
over eggs with hollandaise
canadian bacon,
coffee with cream in it
all the most fattening things
for our one meal per day
we name concepts-
The Devil’s Companion,
The Dusty Bible
then vow to steer clear
of satanism-
not the most popular theme
how about…The Liquid Lady?

we shake hands and take turns paying
grounded in who is struggling more

he still daily promises
to never let me starve
or lead me homeless,
like he kind of is
and he keeps to it
bringing pounds of burritos,
chocolate milk and whatever’s waiting

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