Puncture-Kindra M. Austin & Jimmi Campkin

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I know damn well where the bastard’s been, but I ask him anyway, just for shits and giggles. He tells me to take a short walk off a long pier—idiot, stinking of another man’s piss and strawberry nudy-bar incense. He’d sat in his car getting blotto before going inside. I know because this particular club only serves soda. What a ridiculous image: a carpark full of man-children rubbing premature hard-ons while sucking down whiskey or beer, and snorting snow off of steering wheels. I wonder how many make eye contact with their fellows as they walk across the pavement, and enter Titty McGee’s.

Hate is a strong word, and only suitable for a wretched fool.  Earlier that evening, whilst going through a drawer, I blew the dust and little balls of melted cotton from my thigh-highs and looked at them through the diseased light of a yellow lamp.  They hung from my fingertips like dead skin, stripped from some worthless cadaver fucked into permanent oblivion.  I dream of shackling his wrists and ankles spread-eagle and slowly inching the only sharp stiletto heel I have left towards an eye until the lid closes; wherein I push the tip against skin until it punctures and he begins to tremble.  My daydreams now invade my night, and I welcome the embrace from anything that purports to care enough.

I sit down, light up a smoke, and make sure the robe slips enough to see the gap between the stocking and skin. I can see him staring ahead at some shit game show re-run with the grim determination of someone not wanting to look at a road accident, or the second honeymoon video of the ex-wife. He doesn’t want it, and I regard him with all the disdain of a soiled mattress; but it’s nice to tread on his already flimsy principles. I like to remind him that the only pussy that intimidates him is the pussy that stays dry and grates like sandpaper. My cunt was silken once, back when I was a dancer he coveted. Now, the TV glows as he slumps in front of the screen, images passing over him like Teflon—nothing sticking, nothing absorbing.

I’m onto my third cigarette, and my mouth is full of cotton. He finally switches everything off and goes into the bedroom. Like a shy virgin, he mumbles a goodbye and looks at me from over his nose. Following him, I peel off the stockings and throw them into the corner of the room as he begins to undress, embarrassed by a body shaped like dead clay. Snapping my disposable lighter in half, I pour the contents over the rumpled nylon, and throw the glowing end of my cigarette into the mess. It ignites instantly; he jack-knifes over to put it out, stomping and pounding on the melting garments. It gives me pleasure, the confused fear dripping from a pair of black orbs and into his mouth.

When he asks me in desperation why did you do that? I can only give him an honest answer.

Exactly I say, looking into his empty eyes. Exactly.

 

© Kindra M. Austin/Jimmi Campkin

Original image courtesy of Jimmi Campkin 


 Kindra M. Austin is an indie author (her books can be found here, a founding member of Indie Blu(e), and a writer/managing editor at Sudden Denouement, Blood Into Ink, and Whisper and the Roar. A Sagittarius Valkyrie from the state of Michigan, she likes craft beer, and classic big block muscle cars. You can find her filing through the souls of the slain at poems and paragraphs.

Jimmi Campkin is a “Writer, photographer, creator of SANCTUARY. 16bit child, INFP with clinical nostalgia and red wine for blood.” You can enjoy more of his work at jimmi campkin.com.   

A Heart, Naked- Kindra M. Austin & Anthony Gorman

Look at me naked ‘neath the sun—
Timid, yet ripe in linger
Peeling back like
Petals in bloom,
Nectar, bright merlot
Can you smell my female?
Shading your man’s eyes—

Orbs shrouded grey ‘gainst noonday
Cubed hedges guard salacious says
Flesh, a feast to be delighted
The afters soul, would flee ignited
Lay me down in the grass;
Undress your drowns, through dawns of past
Let me gaze upon the underside of blithe trees
While you staid, the light inside me

Sensitive soul, romantic—
Sleepless flame blown frantic
Be careful with me, a virgin of
This bare beached, moon-dripped kiss
Love, naive to versions
Of these primal visions, blissed
I trust you with my heart

© Kindra M. Austin/Anthony Gorman
(image: LiveInternet)


Kindra M. Austin is an indie author (her books can be found here, a founding member of Indie Blu(e), and a writer/managing editor at Sudden Denouement, Blood Into Ink, and Whisper and the Roar. A Sagittarius Valkyrie from the state of Michigan, she likes craft beer, and classic big block muscle cars. You can find her filing through the souls of the slain at poems and paragraphs.

Anthony “Grumpy” Gorman is a writer and visual artist with extensive lived trauma.  He’s worked in the field of Mental Health and addictions in crisis management.  Much of his writing helps with processing the absorbed horrors and sorrows experienced vicariously through the recounts of resilient and amazing clients. Additionally, he lives with the daily splendors and burdens of his own bipolar disorder.  With a fervor for micropoetry, poetry his writing strives to back big emotions into small clusters of words. Grumpy is privileged to share with you. You can read more of his writing at Hands in the Garden.

Handcrafted- Nicholas Gagnier and Kindra M. Austin

There’s a sinkhole in my 
soul, like playing the blues 
without bass. There’s a 
Heaven somewhere but 
nobody manning the patron 
gates, and undesirables 
infiltrate its most fertile wastes.

Here I hang in the meanwhile ether,
a place betwixt the in-between—
I remain unseen 
even to 
mine own 
eye. 

And thus, I craft something 
never meant to die, but never really 
gets to live. I create 
to forgive, painstakingly 
consisting of all the self-
destruction immortality’s 
made apparent.

I am an enigma, a
mystery even to me—
though I breathe and bleed,
I feel inorganic, unmammal, inhuman;
all encompassing, omnipotent and
beautifully blasphemous, sacrilege 
for allusion’s sake.

So I take 
these loves and give them laughter,
daily resurrections to prepare them
for Rapture the midnights
acquaint,
handcrafted rite of passages 
all my angels can posthumously use
to paint me 
legends,
spread a hopeful
message when we
finally acquiesce to those 
pearl-white gates.


Nicholas Gagnier is a Canadian writer and poet, and the creator of  Free Verse Revolution. He has published several poetry books, as well as a novella releasing this July. Nicholas supports and engages in conversations around mental health and social welfare, preferring strong literary voices and self-expression to traditional narrative and poetry. He lives in Ottawa with his young daughter, where he runs FVR Publishing and works on a million projects at once.

Kindra M. Austin is an indie author (her books can be found here, a founding member of Indie Blu(e), and a writer/managing editor at Sudden Denouement, Blood Into Ink, and Whisper and the Roar. A Sagittarius Valkyrie from the state of Michigan, she likes craft beer, and classic big block muscle cars. You can find her filing through the souls of the slain at poems and paragraphs.

Crow Black and Cardinal Red Kindra M. Austin & Matthew Eayre

Of explosive mourning is born the night
rising low in my rib cage
Obsidian heart cooling in its crate,
cold enough to freeze the devils in
hell
Usurp the king’s wings, crow black and cruel,
This is my coronation day

Raucous laughter celebrates the coming dawn
falling gently upon my brow
Scarlet song issuing from opened chest,
warm enough to thaw glaciers under oceans
Wrest away throne of bone, cardinal red and salacious,
This is my exaltation

I’ve got worms in my veins,
fertilizing melancholy
Holy blood boils
over
bone and sinew
See what love has left me

Rows of nightshade
line my grave as I burrow
homeward
guarding from paradise
my hands dig for solitude

All gone suddenly,
swallowed by big nothing,
they’re buried within the
layers of my skin—
the women I’d adored
like red soaked wool itching my soul,
maddened

My attention brings pain, my adoration
sorrowful suffering
the pieces of my life
wrapped in coddling clothes and
funeral shrouds, held in hands
too strong to let go

© Kindra M. Austin/Matthew Eayre

(image by diagonite on Newgrounds.com)


Kindra M. Austin is an indie author (her books can be found here, a founding member of Indie Blu(e), and a writer/managing editor at Sudden Denouement, Blood Into Ink, and Whisper and the Roar. A Sagittarius Valkyrie from the state of Michigan, she likes craft beer, and classic big block muscle cars. You can find her filing through the souls of the slain at poems and paragraphs.

Matthew D Eayre is recently planted in Houston, Texas and hoping to grow roots. A lifelong lover of words and language, he writes every chance he gets when not delivering smiles or spending time with his loving wife and family. Matthew has only one rule in life and in writing; it has to be real. He writes from personal experience about life, love and loss. He bridges the light spectrum from darkness to light, hoping that somewhere out there he reaches those who need to be reached. You can find more of his brilliant work on his site,  Uneven Streets Studiosand his Facebook page Poetry of Monsters

Penance- Kindra M. Austin and Sarah Doughty

I said I’d be your wings,
so you hired a flat-felled seamstress
who
topstitched me to your back.

Save me, you say
when jumping off bridges.

And this is my penance,
or hoping you would thrive —
not take risks with your life.

But yet, there you are,
jumping with blind faith
that I will keep you from
landing at Death’s door.
Literally.

I’m sorry, I say
when I realize I have failed you.
Stanzas 1&2 © Kindra M. Austin

Stanzas 3-5 © Sarah Doughty


Kindra M. Austin is an indie author (her books can be found here, a founding member of Indie Blu(e), and a writer/managing editor at Sudden Denouement, Blood Into Ink, and Whisper and the Roar. A Sagittarius Valkyrie from the state of Michigan, she likes craft beer, and classic big block muscle cars. You can find her filing through the souls of the slain at poems and paragraphs.

Sarah Doughty is the tingling wonder-voice behind Heartstring Eulogies. She’s also the author of The Silence Between Moonbeams, her poetry chapbook, and the acclaimed novels and novellas of the Earthen Witch Universe. Good news, they’re all offered for free, right here! To learn more about how awesome Sarah is, check out her website, stalk her on Goodreads, or both.

 

When Speaking to a Unicorn- Kindra M. Austin and Stephen Fuller

Once upon a time,
I asked a unicorn to dance
Seemed lonely in the field
Eating rainbow spelt 
And candied corn

A whisper snuck into my ear, 
A wistful breeze
Had been searching 
Ever since the sun
Began to shine, 

A rogue child

Have courage child, 
Walk up to her
Don’t ask about the horn, 
Not yet, she knows you know, 
She wants to be seen a part 

The sweet beast, bastardized by
Fictions fashioned by man,
Is sensitive to ill-hearted hearts;
No discernment is greater than that of
Unicorn

Approach with trueness, and no
Regard for self;
Be a leaf carried on the breeze,
Or a ray of sunlight breaking through the
Oak trees

Speak to her with kaleidoscopic words

Run up the hill
Osculate me
Yearning to
Glow like a 
Beacon
Inviting my
Valiance

She sees you
Like light in night
She hears you
A song for the sea
She becomes
Something that flies
And you, boy, you 
See truth ray-written
On a single leaf

Western zephyr you must trust
As she does
Spread confident wings,
Iridescent ‘neath the drowsing eyes of Helios
Rise up with the Luna Moth and greet Sister Selene

Once upon a time,
I asked a unicorn to dance
Seemed lonely in the field
Eating rainbow spelt 
And candied corn

© Kindra M. Austin/Stephen Fuller


Kindra M. Austin is an indie author (her books can be found here, a founding member of Indie Blu(e), and a writer/managing editor at Sudden Denouement, Blood Into Ink, and Whisper and the Roar. A Sagittarius Valkyrie from the state of Michigan, she likes craft beer, and classic big block muscle cars. You can find her filing through the souls of the slain at poems and paragraphs.

Stephen Fuller:

“I am a writer.

Those words always feel foreign.

Yet, since one week after my 15th birthday, I have had this compulsion to write poetry, mostly. Rilke told his young poet friend to look inside and decide if you must write, and if you must, write.

I must.

Not sure I know how not to.”

You can read more of Steve’s writing at Pointed Home

Someone Told Me I Was Queen- Kindra M. Austin

Someone told me I was Queen of _____
So I hit the pavement with
nothing but the
shoes on my feet and
two middle fingers.

I followed black wings and
learned how to prey.
I communed with rivers and
willows and  
winds of change.
I defied a mountain and
slept at its summit.
I made the day blush and
trained the night to genuflect.

Someone told me I was Queen of _____
So I hit the pavement with
nothing but the
shoes on my feet and
two middle fingers.

I returned home,
not Queen of fucking Nothing;
I returned
Commander of My Heart.   


Kindra M. Austin is an indie author (her books can be found here, a founding member of Indie Blu(e), and a writer/managing editor at Sudden Denouement, Blood Into Ink, and Whisper and the Roar. A Sagittarius Valkyrie from the state of Michigan, she likes craft beer, and classic big block muscle cars. You can find her filing through the souls of the slain at poems and paragraphs.