Introducing Aurora Phoenix – ‘The Uprising’

there is a primal roar

building within her

founded on the

atoms of dirt

scrounged by grappling-hooked toes

scavenging salvation

from precipice’s

teetering edge

as they curled

in orgasmic throes

of borrowed ecstasy

 

the rumble surges

up exasperated tendons

above scabbed knees

upon which they forced her

failed to keep her

despite repeated bloody

bludgeonings

 

the portending implosion

reverberates cataclysmic

through hallowed

and maligned walls

of her invaded

as yet unvanquished

vagina

 

the latent blast

rises roiling

beyond belly churning

beset with tormented butterflies

swallowed under duress

with teaspoonfuls of shame

taking her medicine

 

the gathering blast

trembles with the

accumulated heartaches

of feminine generations

spasms aortically

spurting crimson

crushed inequities

 

the impending cosmic levitation

upends flustered follicles

as lightening

bolts of righteous rage

flash incendiary shafts

from eyes and lips and tongue

 

the lacerating howl

tears her asunder

unleashes her tether

to a byzantine past

shreds constraints

denudes her quivering

purest soul

 

 


[Aurora Phoenix: I spent over 2 decades as a clinical psychologist, prior to the decimation of my world when I was suddenly incarcerated 2 and a half years ago. My writing was born in that caged existence – not a choice but a soul-saving necessity.  I write as Aurora Phoenix at Insights from “Inside”]

As We Are – Max Meunier

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As We Are – Max Meunier

the consequence
your kiss requites
e’er moors my heart’s
intrinsic orbit

gravity
of your exert
affords each breath
its fate anewed

the magnitude
felt by your presence
stays the precipice of earth

your words avow validity
to voices once devoid
of venue

emptiness was heretofore
now understated
understood

stoic walls
electric impulse
chemicals, reactive substrates

ushered by the impetus
of oscillating frequencies
athwart velocities in flux

a symphonic polarity
imploding spectrums infinite
through spectred trials
of flesh profound

resounding far beyond
the vacuous expanse of space
in timeless incarnations
as we are

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.  He writes at Max Meunier Dissocative Void.

 

Ikimasen – David Lohrey

Talking truth to power.
What potent language.
Truth. To. Power. And if
power talks back, I’ll call
my lawyer. I’ll return
to my safe space. I’ll issue
a trigger warning to comrades
around the world: Help!

We’ll take them to court. My
lawyers will set them straight.
They’ll read them the riot act.
They’ll spank their asses
and set me free. I’ll
celebrate with pancakes
and whipped cream. A
brunch for the warrior class,
LGBTQ crusaders fighting
in pink tights and gold
lame running shoes. It’s
a true revolution, led by
Pussy Riot and the Marijuana
Growers of America. Give us
the chance and we’ll turn
the country into a 3rd world
basket case, just like Venezuela,
or my favorite, Zimbabwe.

We’ll kick pregnant women
in the stomach, set
fire to the White House, and
suck off anyone who
joins the cause. We’ll line up
on our knees to sing The Battle Hymn
of the Republic: “Oh say can you see
how fucked up we all are.”

The Black Bloc will attack us
if they believe we are against
them. Black power groups
declare white lives don’t matter;
we better sign up or they’ll
cut our throats. Speak
truth to power. What do
the US Army, Walmart, the World
Bank and Madonna have in common?
They all demand we get along. Open
borders and open arms. That’s CIA policy.
That’s the lyrics of the Pussy Riot. Globalism
is the new narcotic; it’s an aphrodisiac. Just
ask Kissinger. It’s orgiastic and if
you disagree, you’re an enemy of the State
as well as an enemy of the Stateless. There’s
unanimity; just ask Anonymous. There’s
consensus. The new Totalitarian State has
decreed that we must all get along. You’ll only be
targeted if you say, “Not me.” You may be shot,
if you utter, “Ikimasen,” which in Japanese means,
“I refuse.”

The greatest We in the history
of mankind is under construction.
All you have to do to join is
to give up everything you believe.
Clinton demands that Putin
go down on Obama. Then there
can be peace. You not only
have to obey, you have to swallow.
Total surrender and then we’ll talk.
That’s the US position; our boot
on your neck, our cock in your
mouth. Clinton has you in her
sights. McCain’s finger’s on the trigger.

Take me out for a walk.
Put a collar on my neck.
Use me like an imprisoned
sex slave. Beat me, drug me,
hand me over to your friends.
The new regime demands total
humiliation and absolute power.
They’ll put rings in our noses
and baseball bats up our asses.
This is no joke. The party is over.
It’s come to this. Samuel Beckett
had it right. We’ll be told
to bleat like sheep or squeal like pigs.
We’re all to be named Lucky,
each and every one of us.

The bright spot on the horizon is
that our enemies are too stupid to hide
their intent. We have time to prepare,
time to fight back, but when they
say it’s time for us to shut up,
they’ll mean it. Few will believe them. They want
erasure. They want ethnic cleansing. They’re
planning to exterminate the opposition.
They’ll let us live as go-go dancers or park rangers.
We’ll just have to submit to castration and
permanent brain damage. It’s coming.


 

[David Lohrey was born on the Hudson River but grew up on the Mississippi in Memphis. He currently teaches in Tokyo. He has reviewed books for The Los Angeles Times and The Orange County Register, has been a member of the Dramatists Guild in New York, and he is currently writing a memoir of his years living on the Persian Gulf. His latest book, The Other Is Oneself: Postcolonial Identity in a Century of War: 20th Century African and American Writers Respond to Survival and Genocide, is available on Amazon.com.]

Introducing Editor/Writer/Publisher Dustin Pickering

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I am very excited to announce the addition of Dustin Pickering as a contributing editor of Sudden Denouement and Sudden Denouement Publishing. He a poet, editor, and publisher of impeccable reputation. He is author of numerous books, such as The Daunting Ephemeral (Transcendent Zero), A Matter of Degrees (Hawakal Publishers), Salt and Sorrow (Chitrangi Publishers) and the publisher of the poetry journal Harbinger Asylum, with his partner Z.M. Wise. If that wasn’t enough, Pickering founded Transcendent Zero Press, a successful publishing company with an impressive catalog of writers from around the world. Recently, Pickering has begun writing for the Huffington Post.
His knowledge and expertise are without measure. It is a true honor to have him as part of our collective. Dustin has a full plate with his various projects and will not be involved in the day-to-day operations of Sudden Denouement, but he will advise us on our transition as we move into the world of publishing. I would recommend taking a minute and look at his body of work, his publishing company, and the sophisticated construction of his poetry. Dustin has become a friend and a mentor, who is more than willing to share his vast knowledge of poetry and publishing. Please take a moment to welcome him to our ranks.
Jasper Kerkau
6/13/17

Transcendent Zero Press

Harbinger Asylum 

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‘ This mess we’re in ‘ – Collaborative – S.K. Nicholas & Samantha Lucero

 

   the lights are always on now, no one ever sleeps.

   i am one of those dreamless alien lights; one of those nobody’s cradled in the teeth of a high-rise window. my building’s a fang that pierces an eye of god. i loved you more because you turned away from me.

   i stare at my reflection until i become the memory of you; until i am become death and stones in pockets, and the formless outside in the velvet dark. you, the ghost that rushes in the corner of my eye, the reason i wear lace when it rains. i’m trying to read your mind, wherever it’s gone, but i can’t. i try to unearth the sandalwood smear of you on my walls and in between my fingers, but you’re not there. i’m not there either, not anymore.

   and so i’ll go to the hudson where they sell fire for your throat when you can’t weep or scream, where there’s bad news in the laughter and they find you floating the morning after.

   this mess we’re in will be over before it can begin.

   With a rock in my hand, I lay you down and taste the sweetness of your lips. I make you pretty and breathe in a scent that tickles me just right. With my fingers around your throat, I squeeze them tight and tell you that I want so much to believe. Among a bed of roses in a part of town others have no need to tread, I watch over you as the sun is replaced by the milk-white moon that makes you look like a porcelain doll my sister used to own. You, my beautiful secret. You, my only regret. You, the only one who knows me for how I am. Sit with me a while and hear my reasons. Give me a little time to tell you how this came to be. Speak some truth to heal these sins. Say something that will ease our passage to a place we were never meant to resist.

   With a rock in my hand, you move with such speed. Like a cat, you twist and turn as I stumble trying so hard to make it known that despite my deeds, I am indeed a good man. But the more you fight against it, the harder it is. The more you move away the closer I come until the only way I can make you understand is for you to see a part of me I try so hard to hide. Hitching up your skirt and sliding down those tights, I smear your lipstick and kiss your throat. Touching you where I feel God the most, I whisper to you knowing there will be no answer. Pulling your hair and sinking my fingers into the ground beneath your head, I hear no birds. I sense no movement at all as the world we used to know turns without us.

   This mess we’re in will be over before we know it.

   i could be the smooth arms of angrboda.

   i could hunt the heat lost in you somewhere like a tremble of life, find the skeleton key that unlocks all locked doors. i could keep one dying secret down in flames. i could birth in kerosene the chained wolf-child, your half-dead maid, an immense snake that cradles the sea. we could be the myth. we could be the end, for fragments like us to fit in life’s hands, full of dirt.

   i’m spit miscarried on grass, i’m all the things i thought, except the thing i could’ve been. i’m lost in my head, and you want me here. swallowing all six red seeds, I still starve in spring. i like it in the dark, with you believing, and you want me to believe in good men, when they would bury vestals alone with a lamp. leave me on a road that i can hitch hike to hell on and think, think… !

   think about a time in red converse. stepping on your toes just to get a close up, listen low so no one else can hear, fuck them, late night in a leather jacket and a pin with a gold tooth and vampire fangs. warning label. 2 packs of american spirits until we’re dry, and anne boelyn’s ghost in the tower of london. a grin of blood they never found on the wall. hell can be real. it’s here; but your face in my hands, watching me cry, that’s worth it.

   “time is a flat circle.”

   if we have one moment that matters,

   this mess we’re in can happen over and over again.

   With a rock in my hand, I use the other to cradle the base of your skull. You used to be my woman. You used to be my girl, but you just wouldn’t be tamed. I never wanted to clip your wings. No, I never wished to see you like that at all, but you never gave me a choice. I could’ve been your man, could’ve been that someone to watch over you when you needed a friend. I was here to give you all of this, yet you went a different way. You gave yourself to those who know only how to betray. It should never have come to this, but what was I supposed to do? Just allow it? Just let you fall further from grace? I’m not a monster, I’m a poet, and all I ever wanted was for you to know it. It was your choice to make.

   With a rock in my hand, I dig the soil with the other. You speak to me but it’s too late. I’ve made up my mind. And yet this isn’t the end. You are the seed that shall be planted. You are the nucleus of what I shall become. You will be mother and lover, and as I lay you down and watch you grow, the past and the future are already dancing on the same page. You have this voice but it needs to be silenced so I can hear what you have to say. You have this beauty but I need to cover it because others will surely come and attempt to sniff you out yet again. Y’know, I’ve never been this open with anyone but you. Never had the chance to be so close. It’s not how you wanted it, I’m sure, but with time you will understand, I can feel it in my bones.

   This mess we’re in gives birth to everything.


S.K. Nicholas is the man at a haunted hotel, alone on a snowy night, trying not to have a drink at My Red Abyss, and Samantha Lucero is the crumbling, lone grave on a hill poking out like a little rotten tooth at Six Red Seeds. ]

 

The Weight of Time- Bishop Hermes

bishoptime

The Weight of Time – Bishop Hermes

Watch as we do
As the sands pour through the glass
In a stream steady
Unable to determine which will be our last
For the top half stays hidden from our
Morbid curiosity
While we strive to slow the stream and
Give fortunes for prophesy

© Bishop Hermes 2017

[Bishop Hermes is an poet/musician who resides in the Houston area. He has wonderful poetic sensibilities, and we are honored by his participation.]

Via Dolorosa- Bishop Hermes                                               

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Via Dolorosa- Bishop Hermes

Walk do we sluggishly
Dragging our mistakes shortcomings regrets
Ever so slow and closely behind
Pleading that it will not
Come along side or skip ahead
Our crosses displaying the horrendous
For the multitudes to see and scoff at
They drat through there clenched teeth
Not understanding they will soon
Too be on exhibit
But what will our Golgotha render us
Who won’t break then fad away
Our crosses will transfigure
The grotesque into the beauteous
If we embrace them without buffering
And find our hope as we travel down
The way of suffering

© Bishop Hermes 2017

[Bishop Hermes is an poet/musician who resides in the Houston area. He has wonderful poetic sensibilities, and we are honored by his participation.]