I’ve tucked my palms into the pockets of my coat because I’m tired of thinking about them. They’re driving me crazy those lines, those lies, the lack of expectation. There’s no tight rope. There’s no hope. There’s no flame flickering from afar. There’s a sky and a sea. And you can hear the hushed judges hiss with serpent tongues. They burrow into your skin and into your brain until a candle flickers where it shouldn’t and a tightrope is strewn only into tomorrow. Never present, never today, and never to the soul. And if it has no soul it’s of no use to me. No use at all. So I waiver from light to light from certainty to uncertainty. . .
Daffni Gingerich says simply that she “is a writer.” You can read more of her mesmerizing prose at Daffniblog.
Are there pastorals in a pixel?
I’ve heard it said so.
That a perfect moment holds life’s memories…
yet the playback waits for death.
No better than the world
in a meek man’s hands:
show me the roses growing naturally in the graveyard,
or a romance with a wick for the years.
We can get high enough
if we run the old Buick
with the garage door shut.
We can get high
walking the Lincoln Tunnel,
or gasping for breath
from a Newark overpass.
A thousand office faces
find their dreams in computer screens,
still glowing when the day shuts its lights.
Wither the aortic valve,
just from a lack of use.
myopic Coke-bottle glasses.
The smoke-stacks in a Cezanne.
in the gold mines of a wedding ring –
are we done yet?
Febrile seizures on a death-bed
awaken his famous past:
canyons in the skin
that ran the red of roses.
He’d take his books for walks
till his legs got lost,
down by the waterfront,
down Washington Street.
The clamor of half-built high-rises,
soot of the tent towns
under the highways:
the fast clacking of sharp shoes on the sidewalks,
a briefcase to withstand the bullets.
Strange creatures that lurked down the streets,
mange and tendon and quiet whisper.
The dog with chopped ears
pawed the Plexiglass shell,
as the clerks and the lawyers brisked past.
A daisy grew in a pavement crack.
A daisy grew and the seasons churned
on a playback twice as fast.
Stuck at a stop in the traffic-thronged street was a truck,
hauling concrete to the next empty lot, being filled.
The driver could barely be heard:
the hum of idling traffic,
the overpasses rumbling above;
beneath the sounds of airplane thrust
and the debates of World News Tonight,
the truck driver,
“I loafe and invite my soul, I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass!”
Mick Hugh is a writer for Sudden Denouement, and the groundskeeper at Mick’s Neon Fog.
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
Kindra M. Austin is a very sweary indie author and editor from mid-Michigan (you can find her books here).
She’s also the co-founder of Blank Paper Press, a founding member of
Indie Blu(e) Publishing, founder of publishing imprint, One for Sorrow,
and a writer/managing editor at Blood into Ink, and Whisper and the
Roar. Austin cut her poetry teeth in April, 2016, and joined the Sudden
Denouement Literary Collective in 2017. You can find more of her foul
mouth at poems and paragraphs.
It said sleep / the voice said / slide into / me / like a fish / in water the voice said / dreamless / I’ll catch you / just sleep it said / you’re tired and / it’s time to / sleep.
Like this / it said / the voice said / close your eyes / slide / let go / see? it said / like this / come to me / easy / you’re tired / just sleep.
That time / it said / remember? / that time in the sea / the water closed over / so close to the shore / but that current / that sneaky tricky current / it said let go / the voice said / like fish / you’re tired / sleep / easy like this / don’t blink.
And you thought / why not / easy / the water quiet / like a sheet / it said now sleep / and the world will wash you by / stay still / finish it / go down / deep / a stone in water / so easy like this / like sleep / heavy dreamless / sink.
Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow / it said like this / no more of this / just sink / slide / sleep / for a moment it was easy / to let it all go by / bead after bead after bead / meaningless string / remember? it said / you don’t but I / remember how wide-eyed / you escaped me.
Close your eyes it said / that time that street / remember? the voice said / it was me / slip of your feet / in the rage of its machines / don’t blink / stand still / and the world will crush you by / like a wave / like a current / in a sneaky tricky sea / don’t cheat / now sleep.
And I’ll catch you / said the voice / why not believe in me / it said tired / don’t think / slide / dreamless deep / ready? sink! / for a moment you were ready / but you cheated / backwards step / you caught yourself / quick / no sleep / through my arms you slipped.
It said sleep / the voice said silk / let go / and the night will pass you by / why not / easy / and I swear it’s not me / now and forever deep / just my twin / not me not me / not the voice in the sea.
Why not believe in me / in my arms / I’m my twin / like this: see? / easy / close your eyes / come to me / don’t think / sleep / never pushed you in the street / try me / the voice said silk.
To the voice I said like fish / through your arms I’ll slip like this / voice current / hair seaweed / I am wide-eyed / you’re no sleep / no end of cheat / to the voice I said don’t speak.
Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow / I said I like this / yes! more of this! / be quiet now / like a sheet / I don’t know what it means / but I know how it feels / sun on skin / daisy fields / sitting idle by a stream.
Quick / I blink / backwards step / I catch myself / you can sing your lullaby / all you want but never me / never in your dreamless water / I slide / I slip / easy: see? like this / there are parties I can’t miss / if I’m late don’t wait / eat.
Always sweet / a sheet of silk / but your singing goes six feet / under daisy fields I think / so don’t
speak / don’t sing / quit / here’s my finger / ready? Sit!
Basilike Pappa lives in Greece. She likes her coffee black, her walls painted green and blue, her books old or new. She despises yellow curtains and red tape. She can’t live without chocolate, flowers and her dog. Places she can be found are: kitchen, office, living room. If she’s not at home, I don’t know where she is. You can find Basilike up late with a notebook in the Silent Hour.
Through my nose, I took everything I could To make the ache In my head stop
There were yellow whales And pipers wearing polka dots Pretending to be God The devil held a sword Like the archangel he was And threatened the weather
Isn’t it something When the thunder of a father Is challenged by the tide of a son; Yet free will bought mankind the moon?
I challenged traditional thought By letting the animals in my stomach out Vampires in white cloth told me my penance Led to something called a blood clot And every voice in the room Sanctioned by love Was suddenly divided By their bindings to strength Empathy Or necessity
I learned That color matters And that humanity classified everything Including the intangibles So we could create crowns For crowded rooms
But when we simplified faith We lost his name And now his face only shows In the most Ungodly Place(s)
Give me happiness or death But dammit, let love rest
[Like most of us, Patrick draws most of his inspiration from his history. Through his writing, he seeks to dredge bodies from the dark pools of his mind, as much as he desires to describe and define what life is.
Patrick Hart is a transplanted South Georgian writer who originally hails from Hampton Roads Virginia. He currently serves in the United States Air Force, as an air traffic controller.
If he had to use one word to describe himself, it would be cerebral.]
Find more of Patrick’s work on Instagram and grab a copy of his stunning debut collection War Paint, published by RadPress Publishing