time who kills – samantha lucero

who kills, father time?

time who kills:
all things.
startling with the drip of a chrysalis stuck threading in a tapered night that once slurped on breast milk and sour bread. a man where clearwing moths have suckled in.
though he peals in fishnets, loud in a mouthy reservoir of silk,
cum is mud, and mud-worms next to a flaring wing, flowering on a spectral chin, making a seedling.
he’s supine underneath the antlers of his boney hands, he’s castrated
or perhaps submerged in the deepest pore of hell. his sons are the immaterial sky, the apathetic sea, the under-dark.
parents, handfuls of dirt, the bleeding ulcers inside the intestines of earth.

time who kills
father time, luxuriating in an oblong sludge, in chianti bottles marked vintage,
“vintage has to be over twenty-five years,” that cunt would squawk, “antique has to be over 100.”
where are the unwashed dishes shattering in his back molars, reheating last weeks dust.
he leaves his sails in the oven now where they can start a fire.
let it all fucking burn,
“whore never cooked.”

father time,
time who kills, alone in an unmarked bed, opening himself like a spider, projecting a tense movie on the popcorn ceiling of his nostalgic mind.

time who kills the woman ambulating in an uncanny valley, a fisted note in her pocket with red ink: love is dead, it was never born. there is no god. marriage is misery. the baby’s breath in your dreams, the rigid blue hydrangea and promiscuous rose on your white day, better left arranged at a funeral.

“…throw roses into the abyss and say: ‘here is my thanks to the monster who didn’t succeed in swallowing me alive.’”- Frederick Nietzsche

[Samantha Lucero writes stuff sometimes at six red seeds.]

BRIMFUL OF GRIM 2 – Collaboration – A.G. Diedericks & Kindra M. Austin

He is the rain on a cold grey day—

the arthritis that ravages my bones

and when he breathes, it’s a Nor’easter wind—

I’m blown apart; shattered;

scattered; kicked about like autumn leaves,

dead

 

Unwritten letters from our post-mortem breathe life into her apparition

Like the weather; she returns to season fresh wounds

Blood pressure tantamount to a volcanic mountain; she hikes my temperature

 

Fuego, fuego! I give him fever; raze his green earth

while he does freeze mine

I exhale phantoms in billowing bursts

and weep for the fugitive memories

 

Her frosted ribcage collides with the arson in my heart; two souls, cremated

We paint every town red;

Ours is a match that burns all bridges

We’re on a road to revive the great depression

 

Ghouls are we without restitution—

to Hell with intuition

Gods warring are we without resolution—

fuck the institution

 

I suck on his brimstone,

a brimful of grim, and he grins with Cheshire teeth

tucked tightly in his head

 

With us there’s no cease fire; no coalition

Be it life or death, our ashes will always blow in the same direction


 

[ This piece is the conclusion to Brimful of Grim, Part 1. ]

 


 

A.G. Diedericks is the groundskeeper of Morality Park, where he lures in lost souls. ]

Kindra M. Austin is an author (information on her book can be found here), artist, and a Sagittarius Valkyrie from the state of Michigan—Go Detroit Red Wings! She likes her drinks corpse stiff, music loud as fuck, and classic big block muscle cars. You can find her filing through the souls of the slain at poems and paragraphs.]

 

Suckerpunch, the Second Coming – Henna Sjöblom

f11e8f0b4d6f93bfa9c07b119cb98364

 

Have you ever tasted true revenge?
Ever feared the loss of a wound more sacred
than the hollowed out palms of Christ?

I’ll tell you, I dip my knuckles in holy water after each defeat,
so that soon my skin will be impenetrable. I charge my gun with self-pity,
coat my blade with spite.
Don’t talk to me, I grin.
I am self-destructive.

Don’t get me wrong.
I’m not stigmatizing, and I can’t be a martyr, as I never bowed to anyone.
Who the fuck set the rules anyway?
I’m a bloody artist, displaying slashes as exhibits in a showcase,
and I take pride in my performance,
but presenting wounds won’t omit the truth,
and the truth is
I’ve never felt better

Than the night I woke up in the hospital,
screaming,
chains rattling around my wrists.
Nurses with faces made of paint scrapers.
Is that what I am?
An exhibit
in need of restoration?
Or the answer to the sarcastic questions
generally asked by horny men around their 50’s?

I’ll tell you what I am.
I am too big for this place.
Acid-tripping deicide angel,
fast-forwarding trough my own rapture.
Unashamed,
unrefined,
I am what mourning widows sing of
on their way to the gallows pole.
We’re the girls that already died once.
We don’t need anyone else.

 

[Murder Tramp Birthday, previously Malicia Frost, dropped the disguise and is now publishing under her real name on SD. A hobbyist writer and an aspiring novelist from Finland, she enjoys surrealism, sci-fi and horror, and her works often deal with mental illness. More of her works can be found at her personal blog.]

Blank Verse – David Lohrey

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Blank Verse – David Lohrey

I’m asked to ignore too much…look the other way.
In fact, I should call my poems empty poems.
“Never-mind poetry,” that’d be a better name.
I’ll write poems about nothing. Poems that say
absolutely nothing but say it well. I’ll write poetry
that resemble Rothko’s paintings of voids, great hollow,
pulsating works of art, undulating existential blobs
from the bottom of the heart, written down but just
as easily forgotten.

Poems celebrating everything that’s good and wholesome,
that’ll be my racket. Easter eggs before they’re broken,
poems about Elvis as a matador printed on black velvet, with
HOME SWEET HOME embroidered in sequins and little
plastic pearls, with hymns to the Almighty. They’ll be called blank
verse and can be served with dessert toppings like apple sauce,
chocolate or maple syrup. Those would be apt subjects for a howdy-doody
poet like me. We’ll call them frozen yoghurt poems and serve them on a stick.

Today’s editors dictate the content of poetry. They remind poets
that anything found to be inappropriate will not be tolerated.
They are little Ivy League Gorkys. I’d be happy to write what
they want but only in exchange for a dacha on the outskirts of Moscow.

These sensitive souls demand a poetry that doesn’t hurt anyone’s feelings.
These self-satisfied prudes are backed by their attorneys. “Mustn’t give offense.”
Poetry is to be edited like church letters in the 1940s. They’d change the title
of Ginsberg’s “Howl” to something like, “Help Me!” Hallmark America.

By the time I’m finished editing out everything offensive, I’ll be left with
4 or 5 safe words: the, yet, then, too, and but. All the rest relegates me
to Facebook. Everyone is offended by my rubbish as every decent
human being in 1957 would have reviled Charles Bukowski’s poetry,
or T. S. Eliot’s, Henry Miller’s and surely Jack Kerouac’s, too.
The New Yorker did so and refused to publish them.

The internet editors now take it upon themselves to enforce common decency.
So off we go, back to the genteel tradition, back to placing covers on piano legs,
back to saying nothing that gives offence, back to the times when dreams
meant nothing, back before Freud, when a pickle was just a cucumber in brine.
And for what? The defense of Christendom? Not at all. No! So we can be nice.
And all this on the advice of corporate lawyers and the guys who make cereal.

The purpose of poetry after all is to make others feel good. This was cooked up
by some madman, a recent graduate of the school of insanity. Be sure that the fat
feel good about being fat, that blacks have black power, and the disabled are made
to feel they can do whatever the next man can even if they live in an iron lung.

I’d prefer to go back to the mimeograph machine, or back as far as the quill.
Forget internet courtesy and creative writing school notions of politeness.
Twenty more years of this and we’ll be back to where we were in the 1900s
when Ezra Pound and Gertrude Stein left the country. Back then the boobs in charge
were mainly little old ladies holding a Bible in one hand and a pistol in the other.
Now the magistrates of decency have MFAs from graduate
writing programs with certificates in censorship signed by the Governor.
They can have it.

[David Lohrey is the author of Machiavelli’s Backyard from Sudden Denouement Publishing. He is also an editor for Sudden Denouement and a mentor for me personally – Jasper Kerkau]

The Fermi Paradox Revisited – Henna Sjöblom

strangers_in_the_night_by_marrrakesh

 

fermi1

I had a panic attack in the street once.
I couldn’t go home, so
I just sat on the ground, screaming,
my makeup smeared all over my face, my nose blazing red like Rudolph the Reindeer’s, and the sounds erupting from my mouth were not some modest sniffles or erotic sighs, but hideous, wet gargles as of a jellyfish being dropped into a juice blender.

fermi2

fermi3

No one would look at me.
Everyone passed by in a hurry, acting as if I was a spot on their retina, a threat to the orderly society. The madness that lures behind the corner as we sit crouched in silence, pondering the significance of emphatic connection

fermi4

Stuck on the wrong frequency
I adjust my vocal chords again
humming sweet nothings into the radio transmitter
A distress-call from a dying race

fermi5

Knowledge of our ultimate uselessness
has been a splinter dug into my backbone, ticking in dissonance with my pulse
fermi6
I reach my slashed wrists out to grab a corner of your coat
Please, sir! If you think I’m good, let me know now, I won’t last very long
supernovae burn too bright and fade too soon
bringing entire galaxies down with them

fermi7

I see you walk by as I peek out trough the window blinds,
(your greasy hair flapping against your neck
your cheeks fat with self-righteousness)
and after all of this,
all I can think is
who the fuck were you to me?
There’s no intergalactic rescue service
coming to our aid when we abandon our ideals and give up on adoration
how could we obtain the interest of an extraterrestrial life form
when we don’t even bother to try and understand each other?
to sate my cosmic homesickness
I turn to the faces of passers-by
but their distrait eyes only reflect what I already know

fermi8

 

 

[Murder Tramp Birthday, previously Malicia Frost, dropped the disguise and is now publishing under her real name on SD. A hobbyist writer and an aspiring novelist from Finland, she enjoys surrealism, sci-fi and horror, and her works often deal with mental illness. More of her works can be found at her personal blog.]

Morality Park – A.G. Diedericks

Welcome to Morality Park
where sleeping dogs bark
and never lie
Where the fire in our hearts combust the torch of Lady Liberty
With flames that will enlighten
your misconceptions
We are the Arsonists
and tonight,
We will conflagrate the patriarchy!

Do not think us unkind
If you tell us
It’s just inside our mind
We’ll write you
a benevolent epitaph
whilst an empath
runs you a crimson bath

Mad Men tried to contain
the mosaic fragments of our delirium
inside prosaic bottles of lithium;
bereft of clarity
and dressed in normality

Restless sanity
Uncaged anxiety
with legislative amnesty
to fluctuate, and Soar
High, on top of the See-saw

In Morality Park;
There are no grey areas!
Yes, I’m talking to you rapists
You, who said you misread her signals
We’ll hang you by the wrong head
and blame it on a typo
from the judge’s sentence

We, the hypochondriacs
of your fake news
Are your greatest misdiagnosis
Sorry Ramones,
But we’ll no longer be sedated
We are the minority
that will parallel park
on your authority
If you get in our space
We’ll be the “What The FUCK?!”
That will remain on your face


 

A.G. Diedericks is the groundskeeper of Morality Park, where he lures in lost souls. ]

The Mmm of Her – Nicole Lyons (From I Am A World Of Uncertainties Disguised As A Girl)

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The Mmm of Her – Nicole Lyons

I was convinced she was crazy
and I couldn’t stand the pitch of her voice
but for the way she would say, “Mmmm”
when I told her about the thoughts,
and how they pummelled me darkly.
I liked the Mmmm of her, the way
it brought out the whites of her eyes,
and I wondered as they closed
if they were watching her thoughts
as closely as they watched mine.
And I wished to poke at them,
her thoughts not her eyes,
although I would be lying if I said
I hadn’t thought about poking those too.
I always left feeling less of myself,
like I had left little bits of me with her
and I started to wonder what she did with them,
those pieces of me that lingered in her office.
Did she think of them as hers now?
A project she could shelve
until the mood struck right,
or a maybe a pet, a defiant dog
she coaxed with treats
and whipped into submission;
or perhaps I was a blossom,
force flowered and placed perfectly
in the corner of her office where
she could watch me wither,
in the spot that never sees the sun
just the bite of the cold air pumping
from her ac unit and the whites of her eyes.

I Am A World Of Uncertainties Disguised As A Girl, the latest collection of poetry from Nicole Lyons is available through Amazon.