Daffodils

By Oldepunk

Daffodil

The smell of rotting agendas always waft in your wake.  I’ve grown accustomed to your sand storm daffodils.  It’s not what you once were, but what you could be that still intrigues me.  Potential, potentially terminal, with velocity.  Sniper taking aim, the looks you throw with abandon.  I lie still sometimes and pretend I can hear the screaming in your eyes.  I would have given it all for you, you know.  I do not think it would have mattered to you.  You are the song Reptile by The Church.  I can see you sauntering and stalking in the sun by the beach every time I hear that song.  Which is often, ’cause I like to pick at open wounds.  The bloody mouth of puckering pink skin attempting to heal is such a turn on and a visceral reminder of your violence, my violet-skinned lecher.  Your Krispy Kreme coochy-coos hardening my arteries.  And then, slow syrupy suicidal sex. Something in me went dormant when you left.  I vaguely remember why, but it’s fuzzy like flash backs from a blackout or a bad trip.  Which I only had once or twice, but that was more than enough to keep from doing it again.  I would for you though, if you wanted to.  Crashing around in the forest at dusk under deep November skies and yelling fuck-all to the universe.  You were always the spark that started Devil’s Night.  A goddess of Bacchus’ loins.  There was nothing I would not have done for you.  I died when you left.  The husk remains, with the frozen portraits of your jack o’lantern smile burned into my retinas.  My skin still shudders with the traces of your touch.  My gypsy witch, evil love cursing the hearts around you like a speedball on fentanyl on meth that is the last run of the roller coaster and heart is pounding and I will be with you soon and my veins are flame and my heart is a jackhammer and I will be in you soon and I will kill you soon and soon I am coming for you my beautiful malady with the melody of death on my lips… and a fistful of sand storm daffodils.

 

image courtesy of Pinterest and Awkward Family Photos

The next addiction – Bishop Hermes

aleistercrowley

The next addiction – Bishop Hermes

Oh that we create addictions

for ourselves and for others

blissful euthanasias we so leisurely strive for

oh create another so that i may

add yet one more habit to my repertoire

we deform to preserve life

as it lackadaisically slips through our hands

and we endeavor not to become statistics

yet most die to be another one

the impatience is killing me

how long shall i wait for my next addiction

[Bishop Hermes is an exceptional poet/musician who came to Sudden Denouement with strong recommendation from Sperantia Zavala. We are excited to have him contributing and feel strongly about his poetic vision and look forward to a fruitful collaboration.]

broken-OldePunk/RamJet Poetry

BY OLDEPUNK broken
some of us are just broken
born of dust and little disappointments
bleak barrow bones and lamented jewels
made of helpless tears and midnight fears
saltpeter and cobwebs, nickel and newt
lost toys that cost joy
cast of glass and weakness
the forlorn reborn in submission
forced into place even when
the pieces never fit
a cross-threaded screw
muck on the sandal of a forgotten god
a chewed up pen
dull pencil with no eraser
primer painted wagon
with busted wheels
many things of little use
an alchemical composition
turning gold to lead,crack and peel
the Narcissist stone!
you do not understand
as the dead envy the living, so
do the broken hate the anointed, you
as i hate you
as I hate myself
the chipped stone defacing a masterpiece
mold on the Monet
dry rot in the wall
asbestos in the halls
toxic relations and divorces
aria of dissonant discourses
some of us are just broken
one of the unchosen
I am the name it always hurts to say
the reflected shadow at the window pane
you will recall we just were
not the same
the broken one will eat the blame
cherry wood ashes and goat’s hair
shell casings and a hangman’s prayer
the puzzle with the missing pieces
a chill wind that never ceases
bitter pills and wounded pride
all of the shit you try to hide
the hateful words that were spoken
these are the desolate ways
 
we are broken 

A letter to someone’s saviour by Oldepunk

aletterto

Hey you.  Allah

I feel nothing anymore

If I do, I can’t tell

is it supposed to be this way?

Hey you.  God, why am I

screaming at the fact that you’re aware of my failure which I see sitting demure at a table sipping espresso as the aftermath of the encounter thickens the air and afterwards no one knows what to say and I want to sneer at our confusion but find I can only shout fears in tongues at the matador in front of the corner store

can you spare a holy smoke?

You know the man who said he knew you tried to teach us

he liked to play with the little boys in the parks after dark

my parents decided that he probably didn’t know you but must have had some good lawyers cause he packed up his show and moved on to the next town

anticipating sundown.

I need a cleansing

I wrote this for you.

Christ,

I thought I left ’em all behind

those friends I never knew

and the women I never loved

the things I’ve never done

and the truths I’ve never spoken

those tears should have dried

those emotions should have died

Buddha,

I should have left when I had the chance

and now I am alone and stoned and cold

no longer so bold, I wish I would have walked away

from those lies I’ve never told

pain I never endured

People I’ve never needed

friends I never saw die

the escape route always eluded me

draining my will to try

Do you offer a resurrection

for those of us who got it wrong

will you truly offer me a chance to start again

or was it bullshit all along.

if it’s really a redemption song

then maybe I too could sing

and see what  your new tomorrow

may bring

maybe, If I can be strong

it has got to better than this

Warmest Regards,

I was Wrong

(This piece of writing was written by a young man striving to find his way at a very dark episode of his life.  It is in no way meant to offend anyone.  I stand for freedom for the entire human race in every culture, creed and religion.  I will not apologize however, for my words, for at the time, they were my truth.  This poem does not in any way reflect the views and opinions of the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective.)

 

Sister – Olde Punk

– sister

Sensations allowing migrating figures to justify the atrocities that follow in the wake of the beast that dwells in the heart of a man who smiles, takes your hand, makes monolithic promises then tears at those things that are valued by those of us who are powerless rulers of a carefully disguised brothel where makeshift occupations keep you mundane and weak and afraid of those who are aware that life is more than toiling in exchange for paper to in turn barter it for air and water and shelter, things that are necessary to survive yet we are forced to strive in a greying hell that makes the demons fat and they molest the angels’ dog’s feelings causing a conversation on theology between ignorant deified bigots over a game of chess…..

we forgot about retributions

and neglected to court them

however, do not feel as though

we savored your loss

after, the taste of the air was unusual

and I found it not pleasing at all

queer gestures harangue the faces

that manifest out of misty mornings

while we await answers from those

who pretend they are ignorant

of the crimes they have perpetrated

O Lord Almighty

observe that blissful naiveté

when did we lose ours?

companions cure the irritations

that accompany the finale

of your fantasy

you beautiful bastard, your sister

walks into perfected ruin orchestrated by your own hands

peace in pieces pleasing none of us

shine the tiger light into my void

respect what you may find there

for it is fragile.

To await nothing is to be eternally patient

The next addiction – Bishop Hermes

aleistercrowley

The next addiction – Bishop Hermes

Oh that we create addictions
for ourselves and for others
blissful euthanasias we so leisurely strive for
oh create another so that i may
add yet one more habit to my repertoire
we deform to preserve life
as it lackadaisically slips through our hands
and we endeavor not to become statistics
yet most die to be another one
the impatience is killing me
how long shall i wait for my next addiction

[Bishop Hermes is an exceptional poet/musician who came to Sudden Denouement with strong recommendation from Sperantia Zavala. We are excited to have him contributing and feel strongly about his poetic vision and look forward to a fruitful collaboration.]