This is the End

the end

We want to reach out.
But baby
here, now, this is the end.
We know, we know ‘ the end ’. We’ve lived inside it.
Slept. Slept. Inhaled.
Creatures of absence.
Your eye is an alien being.
It alone sings. A rotating rim.
Continuously revolving in the hemisphere’s strange music.
I look down. My feet are shadows.
As are my thighs. My body. My bones.
All flesh is a memory.
I see its desperation in the starched sky.
I am the remainder. The remainder of distortion. Climate of mishaps.
I say this is the end.
Your fingers tackle my defeated hair. You wish for sound.
You almost demand it.
But I only meet you in clever silence. The loudest kind. The ugliest kind.
I meet you in suffering.
You wish for me to speak.
Tell you that I love you.
But I only dissolve. I dissolve like all matter does.
In inconspicuous battles. I’m almost fluid. I almost do not exist.
My face is streaming into yours.
My hands clasp yours and forge starfishes.
We are satin blue.
I hold you close to my mouth and kiss your bright skin.
Your mouth melts off
and your voice floats like snow flakes in my chest.
‘ This is the end. ‘
It says ‘ this is the end ‘.


Aakriti Kuntal is a 24-year-old emerging poetess from the country of veritable colors and stratified rainbows, India. A Network Engineer by profession she has been writing for over a year now. She enjoys nature, music, all things geeky and all things art.

Aakriti writes for the Writings of Aakriti Kuntal, and her work has been published in 1947 Literary Journal, Duane’s PoeTree blog, Visual Verse and Indian Periodical among others.

i checked myself

i checked

i have checked myself and seen that i am nothing; 
the bones of poets gone and done 
lay beneath the hills. 
i put on my boots and took my shovel, 
for to disturb them 
would be a lesser crime than to ignore.

i checked myself 
and saw that i was nothing; 
i looked for art 
and saw it slither into bank accounts in dead of night, 
while the dewy brows of poverty’s poets 
tremble in their plight. 

i checked myself
and let myself stand up.
stand up, i said –
stand up, writers! 
stand up for complexity, confusion and colour. 
take your pennies and forget the pied pipers, 
they have led naught but rats.

i saw the riches over realness, 
splendour over solidarity… 
i cried upon my pillow. 
my people, my people!
when the muses so return, tell them why you wrote!

we not one of us free falls –
i checked myself…
something always had me.


[ Lois describes herself as a “confused english student,” though one quickly finds a polished, charming poet in her work. She has an elegant style that compliments her keen insight and whimsical sensibilities. It is a pleasure to present her work, and you can find more of it at Lois E. Linkins.]

Subjective – Matt Eayre


These words have no meaning.

A metaphor, perhaps,

an impending ice age covering the landscape while I run from the freeze.

A turn of phrase, it could be, I never wanted anything to stop my destruction, and she jumped on the grenade to save me.

A rhyme, to mark the time, the wind brings me a smile,

Thinking of you drinking in that happy place about a mile

Away from my hands, you can stand on your own and

Find a new home while I wither alone and drink my lonely tears,

I’m stuck in my fear and will be for years…

These words have no meaning, when they sit on your screen, on your printed page you read them and translate into images of your own experience

My life is my own and when I write I feel a release of captured agony,

Does it reach you?

This man is getting old, trying to find a way to keep being

I’ve found a medication that works

Strange eyes see my heart and pass judgement,

this is poetry,

this is not

this is good enough,

this is crap

you’re a good writer,

you’re a poet

you’re an imposter

and you know you don’t belong

These words have no meaning

Here I sit, a survivor of countless attempts on my life

(by my own hand)

Here I sit, a remnant of innocence twisted and stolen,

I stand, the thing that grew when a brand-new tree was broken.

These words have a meaning.

I have lived this life and I have tried to find a meaning, I have fought against all of the noise in my head, all of the hate in the world which buries my people.

I have tried to lift hearts from cages and teach birds to walk,

So their wings won’t fail them.

These words have meaning.

If you will just see
I cannot yet fly
I have only a wish to know the clouds.

If you will read these words and know my love, we may both find the wind.

I have died and come back to life
to be here
to give you this moment

I write for only one reason.

I am these words.

I have meaning.

Matt Eayre

To-Do – Georgia Park

To-Do – Georgia Park

Forget your insecurities about those scars, everything looks good in the dark.

Don’t hold your breath until you turn purple. Throwing fits like this can make your boyfriend feel blue. He doesn’t deserve to.

Don’t blush or show a red hot temper with acquaintances. They are probably not bad people and anyways, it’s not like they can eat you.

Eat more fruit! Buy strawberries and oranges. If you’re feeling ambitious, you can find a recipe for some sort of fruit stew. Doesn’t that sound delicious?

If an acquaintance turns out to be evil, it’s ok to be a little yellow bellied. Run for the hills! But before embracing cowardice, let them prove it to you. Forget your preconceptions.

Don’t eat sweets. Freak out and eat too many sweets. Turn green. Feel sick enough that you try to reverse time. Fail miserably.

Eat more veggies! Eggplants are nice and a very pleasant shade of nightblack purple, which is oddly reassuring.

[Georgia Park is the creator of Private Bad Thoughts, curator of Whisper and the Roar a feminist literary collective, and a writer for Sudden Denouement. She is a wonderful poet with an enormous heart. We can’t imagine this journey without her. Please check out more of her wonderful work.]

Time and Sticks

By Aakriti Kuntal
Time and Sticks
My legs elongate
into uncertainty,
their uneven shapes masquerading
a rather even formlessness
Prickly clouds hang
with shaven heads
and Clot
the artery, the pace,
the rhythm of this slovenly existence
I tap the round edges of my calves
and meet the rising color of age,
a darkened maple hue,
accumulation of multiple days
cemented boundaries of blurring worm cells
fountains of tension and pain
Occasionally I think
I could bury myself in space,
Swallow vacuum like food and create a gaping hole,
a minute, a day, a lifetime
Anything that spells ‘ Okay ‘
Occasionally I think
I could burn onto the side table
and nothing will take notice
not the cold sheen of blue curtains
not the clocking lights in my room
That nobody will take notice
And suddenly I will be sliced into two,
two equally nonexistent dimensions of time and space

image courtesy of Aakriti Kuntal

Aakriti Kuntal is a 25-year-old emerging poetess from the country of veritable colors and stratified rainbows, India. A Network Engineer by profession she has been writing for over a year now. She enjoys nature, music, all things geeky and all things art.  Aakriti writes for the Writings of Aakriti Kuntal, and her work has been published in 1947 Literary Journal, Duane’s PoeTree blog, Visual Verse and Indian Periodical among others.

Umbral Nimbus – Max Meuiner


Umbral Nimbus- Max Meuiner

the preference
is to not partake

thus, do parts
persist with aching

much akin to skin

and inference
of its open ends

through foregone hope
denied amend

that only cloaks
a wartime pretense

in pensive pantomime

flush with fiery flashes

spurring tear-soaked
soft surrender

as those failed attempts
by hailed December misanthropes

whose fragile mark we missed

when tenuous hearts tempestuous
had stumbled
just to kiss
an ushered shadow’s curse

stark as stillness

set to filaments
of nimbic aureolae

these scarecrows
sowing ceaseless storms

bestowed upon us

bested by our time-worn stoic brand
of listless christening

for sake
of Christ

or what we think
we know

or know
to think

our thoughts unflinching
tethered tight
to sinking vessels

versed in would-be servile vaunting
and self-avowed

cowering as our symphonies wail
like ailing scripture
on some Sylphium-shaped shield’s frail sense
of fleeting
contrivance of an inbound safety

only flames suffice
resolved to e’er resound
the halls
of filigreed-framed lore
scrawled by human-flawed philosophers

and profane paleontologists

since plaintive

whose pallor paints
the will
of their walled reception

void as emptiness

found in the white-hot conflagration

following ephemeral suns

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.

Chicken Dinner – Nicole Lyons

We crossed that bridge
the second you came upon it,
beach blankets soaked
and the lovers’ notes
carved a generation before us
had seemed entirely too heavy
until that night when I sat down
to undercooked chicken and overcooked rice
served with an unconditional side of love.
And I remember feeling sorry for the chicken
at that moment in all of my wise teenage years,
and having an epiphany right there
at the dinner table next to an alcoholic
control freak who called me stepdaughter
and walked upon me to seal it
like the gummy flap of an envelope
stuffed with unloved letters,
and a mother who wore exhaustion
hidden inside her navy pumps.
Death, no matter how it is served
will always precede dinner
unless breakfast beats it to lunch.
And I thought myself wise beyond my years
in that moment, still warm
from the glow of your summer love
and giddy because you and the chicken
filled the pit in my stomach
that always seemed to pound
when he cleared his throat.
And when I heard him gag
behind the ball of his fist and blame it
on the weather and too big a gulp,
I almost didn’t wish he would choke
on chicken or the spite hidden beneath it.

Nicole Lyons is a writer/editor for Sudden Denouement and the creator of The Lithium Chronicles.