HUSH written by Nicole Lyons, is a searing collection of poems that takes the reader on an emotional ride, through the tunnel of mental illness and reckless love.
Nicole Lyons’ voice undulates from pain to ecstasy, at breakneck speed. Erotic, soulful and authentic, Nicole has written a raw memoir encapsulated in poems. Stepping off the cliff, delving into HUSH, readers will find themselves breathless and wanting more. -Julie Anderson
The first book from Nicole Lyons is now available here.
Hush cover design: Sherri Smith
Hush cover model: Julie Anderson
Hush cover photo: Paul Empson Photography
You can read a glowing review by Jasper Kerkau here, and if you’re interested in reading some of the galaxy’s most liberating, moving words, I recommend that you follow the amazon link above. Nicole Lyons is the creatrix ofThe Lithium Chronicles, as well as being a consulting editor and writer at Sudden Denouement.
This poetry collection has a beginning, middle and an end. It covers two months’ worth of misadventures in the life of an embittered and slightly arrogant young woman who decides to quit her job to become a poet out of spite after being called a few choice names. Sometimes you will like her, sometimes you may not. Sometimes you may laugh or cry or want your money back. But life’s not very fair that way, now is it?
This is a coming of age story, and that age is almost thirty.
when did you keep god under your tongue,
like an uninvited pill from that plastic nurse behind a wall,
masked and reaching out to hand you an orange
mood in a paper cup made in L.A.
for whom did your milky eyes blur, or from whose unseen stare did the water of your ribs buckle and hide when you knew that worship was a mask we
wear, that rituals and skin give us a tendency to forgot how to say no?
i was born in a summer cage that sold
whispers to me in body-sized trash bags, flung at donation
trucks where you wait and where you drive up and pry a hole, pull out unwanted secrets you can take home and cherish as yours from other people’s
unglamorous lives; a boy scout’s book on how to make a fire. a girl scout’s book about how to cook on it.
my heart’s in a shot glass that says ‘i ❤ san francisco.’ on the floor by a fireplace in his basement.
I never wanted your understanding
All I need is a mouth
someone who roars louder than me
someone who grabs first and asks not
whether I’m enjoying it
to block out
my own desires
I have chosen to love the monster
I did not ask for it,
I think I’m quite comfortable in here
Being bitten is painful and familiar
I collect his teeth as trophies
like soldiers stacking bullets around their necks
like we used to compare our scars
in middle school “I think he’s getting more violent,” you whispered
and shivered in terror and ecstasy
over the thought of getting torn apart
at the dinner table that night
my skin has become a topographic map of wars
that were never recorded in history
My anxious fingers wander up to his jawline
and starts deciphering
where the next impact will strike
so that I might pull my shirt up
make sure it hits the spot
to make me see stars, nebulae bruises
flashing before my eyelids
And it doesn’t matter that he is all teeth
and no bones
I always found it easier
to love the wound
rather than the person inflicting it
[Malicia Frost, or Henna, is a hobbyist writer and an aspiring novelist from Finland. She enjoys surrealism, sci-fi and horror, and her works often deal with mental illness. The drawing is from her sketchbook, a place she likes to illustrate her thoughts. More of her works can be found at her personal blog.]
We stand like stones
beside the throes of the ocean,
beneath the gaze of
the holiest of crows
floating above the bones
and wreckage of those lost
at sea, you let your
pride swell and you sank with
an anchor at your feet,
cursing the moon
to let the water just recede,
pleading with every angry
to allow yourself to
swim out in decline,
the commotion of being
born of immaculate design,
you stand alone inside the mountain,
shouting that you want to call god
on a burner
to hide your trail,
to scorn him, to convince yourself
that you aren’t yearning for something
more, learning that there’s
no one there
to stop the drone. What are you
holding to? Solitude
asks nothing of us, and you
shouldn’t be ashamed. Scared,
maybe, but bring that to the
light and up it goes in flames,
four hours wandering
the skin of the sea,
the shoreline adores
and your subtle step.
the man i loved who never knew was tall like most men girls love & never tell he was t h e unreachable one in missing scenes of my other life — one i could’ve had, but couldn’t, & now i can’t at all — he was that untouched n a m e i never murmured aloud a strangled sonnet that i would recite to a chasm in each yearning lover’s prison-grey heart, wet-eyed with a desert-tongue and a diamond gun, because you’re holding the smeared organ the holy medal in my scalded dreams, where no one can hear what i whisper into my own nebulous mind, so i scream in my head when i see you, even in this inner-woven world where i can confess to the fake piece of you that isn’t really there,
i don’t, i wouldn’t dare.
[Samantha Lucero writes stuff sometimes at sixredseeds.]