Sudden Denouement Publishing is excited to announce David Lohrey’s collection of poetry Machiavelli’s Backyard. Lohrey’s poetry is rife with dark humor, biting social satire, and paralyzing honesty. His work illustrates that now more than ever, in a world overrun with vapid pop culture, shortened attention spans, and loss of a collective sanity, there is a need for voices that speak truth, spreading light in the darkness–poetry is alive! All is not lost.
Lohrey is a brilliant artist, a visionary with a keen command over the English language, an ability to make fire out of rock and wood. His collection is available on Amazon and The Book Depository. October 1st, his book will be available on Amazon Kindle. A pre-order is available for the Kindle version.
If anyone is interested in writing a long-form review, please contact me for a copy of the book. In the process of publishing, I have learned that reviews are an important part of the process. I would ask anyone who purchases the book to go to Amazon and Goodreads and leave a short review.
Co-Founder Sudden Denouement
we sleep in separate beds,
to clear our clouded heads.
we keep our secrets wrapped
in gaudy signatures and glasses cracked
over organ flourishes.
we have rooms upon rooms,
some shortage of love
made up in statement wallpaper and bespoke furniture.
the sweeping staircase
holds centre place,
a marble decoy
feels as cold as the flesh
behind the welcome and the wine;
we keep our hands apart,
stands for wedding photos developed unseen,
money sadly spent
on a white pretence
that fill so many baby dreams;
it seems that playground jests
have found their poorest manifest
in our little life of theatre.
mama, he thinks our homespun play
is swallowed like tequila,
he believes the empty nursery unnoticed,
sitting in his claw-foot bathtub
with a beard of bubbles,
oblivious to the pool of mockery
in which he is submerged;
mama, it would not take much!
oh, for some sweet humour with the help…
yes, i could be content.
[ 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.]
Sentence of Sentience – Max Meunier
what have i
but quieted inquiries
of a sub-violet druse
no tangible touch
to form valid expression
miles of mutable morass
from which somnolous streams
bereft of availing account
where whims slowly waft
beyond walled apparitions
fled from partition
to form in summation
a dormant despair
born of quiet desperation
in sediments muring
a freedom reprieved
of sententious ideal
for what purpose plausible
peers within prisms
cradling consciences captious
enraptured in casting incessant goodbyes
lest my thoughts
[image credit: Wilhelm Kotarbinski]
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.
God, I am selfish.
I am a selfish lover,
and a selfish friend,
and I am a selfish saint.
But am I selfish on Sunday
when I break my bread
and remember that girl
and her tingles,
and every prayer I whispered,
when I was running
from scared into terrified?
I was unselfish when
I was terrified in that tunnel,
and I was high on those vibes
when we met.
The electric terror and tiptoes,
the sweet sound of bored teenagers
breaking trust and all the rules.
We smoked her stepfather’s cigarettes
and drank my mother’s wine,
and we spray-painted our names
inside each other’s secrets
in golds and blues across dirty metal,
and then she laid me down.
I was unselfish and terrified
that time I said yes
when I meant to say no,
but her fingers were quick
when my resistance was weak,
and I was two seconds to thirteen
and a lifetime from knowing better.
And now I can’t help but feel sorry
when I remember her then,
under those flickering lights
a block away from home,
and the way we kissed.
That kiss that stormed the skies.
That kiss that shook the plains.
That kiss that had her speaking
of tingles and first love,
and body rocks.
That kiss and those tingles,
on that body from a lifetime ago,
are now ravaged to bits
in a home somewhere,
eaten by the degenerate mouths
of degenerative diseases,
and here I am,
still selfish and terrified,
at breakfast on Sunday,
saying a prayer and wondering
if the tingles her body is wracked
and wrecked with now
can come close to the ones I gave her
in blues and golds, way back then.
[ Nicole Lyons is a writer/editor for Sudden Denouement. She is a driving force in SD with a voice that resonates with people all over the world. We are honored to have her as a member of our family. She is the creator of The Lithium Chronicles, as well as writing for other sites such as The Feminine Collective. Her first book Hush is an inspired collection of poetry. Most importantly, she is a valued friend and mentor – Jasper Kerkau. ]
by Lois Linkens and Christine Ray
sleep stalks me, finds me an easy target
slinks in to drag me under, into the depths
where unknown dangers lurk in my unconscious
what murkiness lies behind my drooping lashes,
what shadows hide between each whistling breath?
what sharpness snuggles buried
among the feathers in my pillow,
what traps will soon ensnare
and dangle me, just feet from death?
they hook me, by the ankle
and suspend me from the tree of dreams,
around which serpents rattle, tigers prowl,
insects scuttle, poisonous, foul.
blood rushing to my head
as i dangle helpless
great cats bat their armored paws
at my flailing hair
like beggars round a campfire.
their claws pull and snag –
draw drops of blood
that quench night blooming jasmine
i wake with a start. temples throb and pulse,
the bed is dry as my parched throat, blankets cold.
perhaps a girl
can be herself without the hair of fairytales.
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 we ask you to take a second to look at more of her wonderful work, lois e.linkens
Christine Ray writes for Brave and Reckless and is a member of Sudden Denouement. She is also curator at Blood Into Ink and barista at Go Dog Go Cafe. She is an aspiring badass.
i am ready for you to kick me out
im itching to hit the road
ill take my buddhist prayer beads
and my rawhide bones
ill take my stuffed animal carcasses
my dog who shits on the carpet
ill take all the men who visited
except one of them
because i just cant. i cant. i cant.
i cant do this
ill drink up all your liquor
ill wake up howling
my buddhist prayer beads
are made of animal skeletons
though i was told
the bones are genuine human
i just cant do this.
i want my cave littered
i’ll keep the dead
we have a healthy relationship
i cant be trusted with the living
my own son and i
dont even speak the same language
i don’t much like talking.
and i cant.
i cant do this.
i cant do this. i cant do this again.
[Georgia Park is a brilliant poet, who possesses something very special. She was instrumental in the evolution of SD. We are honored to publish her work.]
The smell of rotting agendas always waft in your wake. I’ve grown accustomed to your sand storm daffodils. It’s not what you once were, but what you could be that still intrigues me. Potential, potentially terminal, with velocity. Sniper taking aim, the looks you throw with abandon. I lie still sometimes and pretend I can hear the screaming in your eyes. I would have given it all for you, you know. I do not think it would have mattered to you. You are the song Reptile by The Church. I can see you sauntering and stalking in the sun by the beach every time I hear that song. Which is often, ’cause I like to pick at open wounds. The bloody mouth of puckering pink skin attempting to heal is such a turn on and a visceral reminder of your violence, my violet-skinned lecher. Your Krispy Kreme coochy-coos hardening my arteries. And then, slow syrupy suicidal sex. Something in me went dormant when you left. I vaguely remember why, but it’s fuzzy like flash backs from a blackout or a bad trip. Which I only had once or twice, but that was more than enough to keep from doing it again. I would for you though, if you wanted to. Crashing around in the forest at dusk under deep November skies and yelling fuck-all to the universe. You were always the spark that started Devil’s Night. A goddess of Bacchus’ loins. There was nothing I would not have done for you. I died when you left. The husk remains, with the frozen portraits of your jack o’lantern smile burned into my retinas. My skin still shudders with the traces of your touch. My gypsy witch, evil love cursing the hearts around you like a speedball on fentanyl on meth that is the last run of the roller coaster and heart is pounding and I will be with you soon and my veins are flame and my heart is a jackhammer and I will be in you soon and I will kill you soon and soon I am coming for you my beautiful malady with the melody of death on my lips… and a fistful of sand storm daffodils.
image courtesy of Pinterest and Awkward Family Photos