Can’t- pbbr

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Can’t sleep lately. Everything’s too bright. I’m not used to serenity; I am comfortable in the moss, under a rock, in the onyx flames of ill repute. Where light burns black with a perfect pitch, a neglected bastardized stinging glitch, oily but warm. Someone came along and snuffed the blackness. It’s too bright in this room. I want to go back to sleep, but not for as long as I will if I do.

Can’t breathe lately. The air’s too clean. Septic breath of a lurid death is what I crave. Putrid stench, nostalgic days. Comfort food like mom used to make, wasp nest chili and seaweed pizza. The old familiar sting of glass in broken nostrils, coppery fragrant like dead wood. Stink of shit and honeysuckle. But someone came along and brought fresh flowers with them. Not the offensive ones; the gorgeous odor of peace. And they make me uneasy.

Can’t talk lately. Not much to berate. I was a stuttering forlorn chicken in a filthy cage, squawking frothing castrated rage. But someone came along with lozenges. Nothing left to scratch and bark. I’m afraid of silence. I’m afraid of mellow golden diatribes, the lack of violence. What happened to screaming at a wall? You’re safe inside, and you know it. And I can’t get to you, and you know I regret it.

Can’t love lately. It’s a stagnant slab of cheery smiles, a vagrant loft of airy lies, laid out before me. Everyone is happy. Let’s all be sociable. Let’s dance with other people’s wives to bubblegum pop, not too close. Leave a void between, the façade of trust and happiness. The empty spaces where attraction used to fit. Deceit, defeat, unseat, complete. Treat me to a stabbing orgasm of penile snap. What the fuck is this trust shit.

Can’t die lately. And it’s making me uncomfortable.

We hope you enjoyed this classic piece of writing from the Sudden Denouement archive.


Based in the piney woods of East Texas, pbbr is a founding member of the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective. He is a technical writer by trade and the author of The Scale of Savages under the pen name Patrick Brendhan, available on Amazon.

Street Rats- Introducing Daffni Gingerich

Ziegfeld Model - Non-Risque - by Alfred Cheney Johnston

From the depths of my churning stomach, he pulls out my childhood and makes me puke so violently it comes out of my eyes. After wiping my face, he kisses my acidic lips. That’s when the world stops and the words start to fall out of me. The mustard plants in the vineyard across the street bloom yearly. They’re beautiful so I sit on the fence and get lost in them. When with me, he’d stare for a good 20 mins before sneaking his dirty paws up my shirt. The wind would cause me to run through the flowers in whatever direction it blew. The sky is blue and I can taste grapefruits in the air. He grabs my arm and pulls me back towards him to say I could never get away. With his arms locked tight around me and my soul devoured by his eyes, I feel a shiver go up my dress. Reminds me of Clara Harris, the woman who they claimed had “sudden passion” and hit her husband repeatedly with a car. Then proceeded to run over his lifeless body. His kisses bring me to places I never planned on going. A monkey and tiger tug at my dress and the sultan rubs a gold lamp. I want the lamp but when I return to his kiss there’s not much else I could ask for. Besides well written work and well, that’s something I prefer to earn over rubbing a lamp to get for free.

[We are very excited to add Daffni Gingerich to our collective. She is a special writer who brings something very special to the our group. I would hope that you would welcome here to SD.]

Rana Kelly – Until Her Darkness Goes

Rana

Today I would like to highlight the first novel of Sudden Denouement writer Rana Kelly Until Her Darkness Goes. Her book is available on Amazon.  Rana is an accomplished poet, and her novel highlights the scope of her writing. Her website is 2nd star to the left, straight on ’til morning. Please take a moment to step into the mind of Rana Kelly by visiting her site, and I would strongly suggest purchasing a copy of her wonderful novel. A review of her work is forthcoming. We are also very excited about the prospect of publishing her chapbook in the near future.

Synopsis:

Rachael Sullivan is NYC’s top music producer and owner of Red Hand Records, a private record label and a legendary empire of recording studios across the globe. But the music industry is in the toilet. Rock is dead, money is dwindling, and Rachael is on the cusp of losing it all. One night in a dingy London bar, she happens upon a raw talent that makes her believe in rock and roll again. The band is Murder of Crows, and her saving grace is Nicky McCallum, the genius frontman who is overcoming his damage. Both of them connect and find profound love, but they soon discover music and love aren’t enough. Drugs cloud the band’s success. Nick struggles with his addictions and demons, while Rachael fights her bipolar disorder and endures a harrowing loss that tests the strength of her soul. The two fight to save one another and remember what brought them together, before it’s lost in wreckage and blood.

Jasper Kerkau

 

 

all the beds are made – samantha lucero

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.

and i think that’s where i swallowed ‘god.’


[Sam does sixredseeds.]

Must The Misfit Be A Masochist – Mick Hugh

You told me to buy presentable clothes and I did, a whole new outfit from Target. Neat slacks and spiffy shirt, even found shoes to match. And now here I am dressed like a fish trying to understand what it means to breathe air. We’re toddlers on a see-saw, you and I, for the first time trying to find stability. But this gala is full of coroners. My first big affair for a serious career, and my editor escorts me to a corner booth to meet the district managers who pay us both. I laughed at the right jokes but I kept my mouth shut, and they never once saw the tattoos ‘round my gums. The molars I had pulled from eating rocks as a drop-out. Clean-shaven clean-cut and dressed like the guest of a judge who doesn’t recognize my face from four years before, I could maybe fit in if my conscience didn’t heave. The walls are turning purple. Faces start to swirl with open jaws of twisting laughter, vortices of features. The chandeliers are bleeding light. The hotel porters are cackling rapists out in the foyer looking for a fix and I don’t know what I’m into but I’m out in the rain. I am the news man who screamed out the window and tossed himself to pursue his echoes. There is a limo parked in the curbside puddles, seven porters to open the limo door. Out steps the Big Man himself, CEO of Gannet. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.” My editor masturbating through his pocket. I am pouring vodka into champagne so no one will notice the changes bringing back the alcoholic. Unemployment gets me paid about half as much but if I don’t need a car or to keep my appearance, well, that’s money well saved and spent at the bar. No – I should give you a call to keep my head grounded but our conversation cannot be heard by these howling de Sades. Their suits are worth more than the hearse they’ll wheel me out on. I am cackling at the bar. Am I the Marquis in the mirror? Behind me spins the eloquent calculations of Murdoch’s publications, wives and the mistresses of breaking war stories and the talking heads from GE that just won’t quit. I am performing Coyote Ugly on the bar, finally shouting all the things that should be said. I haven’t had a care in the world since Makers’ Mark let me forget the debts I owe and the kids we support and I may be the Marquis in the mirror but god damn these cruel fools, our see-saw will stay stable if we place a god damn trailer on it.


[Mick Hugh is the genius behind the neon fog, and is a #1 bad ass.]

Our New Publications Page

We are thrilled to announce that the writers of the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective have been so productive lately that we have needed to create a Publications page on our site.  See below for a sneak peak and look for the page in our top menu.  We expect to be updating it regularly!

Books

Sarah Doughty

Heartstring Eulogies

Earthen Witch Novels

The Silence Between Moonbeams

Rana Kelly

2nd star to the Left, straight on ’til morning

2016

Until Her Darkness Goes

David Lohrey

2016

The Other Is Oneself: Postcolonial Identity in a Century of War: 20th Century African and American Writers Respond to Survival and Genocide

 Nicole Lyons

The Lithium Chronicles

2017

Hush

 S.K. Nicholas

A Journal for Damned Lovers

2016

A Journal for Damned Lovers

United Kingdom

United States

Georgia Park

Private Bad Thoughts

2017

Quit Your Job and Become a Poet

Paperback

EBook

let’s be strangers in new orleans – samantha lucero

next-day sore, fabled romance memories we’ll never have again hang themselves over the morgue of my shoulders. 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 hostage underneath the humid crucifix game of your nails. maybe we could be in love. your calloused hand, my beating throat. memories are ghosts that can physically embrace me; embrace us.

like  dirt-sweat in a ghost-tour day of that hot mouth street in New Orleans, where the grinning specter-folks wanna stay like pasted gaslight 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 every pop-up table. my black boots on powdered sugar all over the concrete long after sleep should’ve gently tapped, hold the the dust of cemetery reflections & the 24/7 menu of the cafe du monde.

meet me for smoke, insomnia, primordial love.

you don’t need the blonde smiling photograph of her burned onto the back of your eyelids when things go wrong for us.

i don’t need the memory of him sewn to my back like a corset scar, like an unhealed secret.

we can make our own memories now. let’s erase them.

let’s erase it all & grow old

in the sweet, warm arms of new orleans where desperate, spilling souls belong. 


[Samantha Lucero is an unseelie that has a nursery of shadows at sixredseeds.]