Out of My Hands – Matthew D. Eayre

The voices in my head
told me, today
they want to see other people
and I don’t know
if I should be jealous
or happy
because I have been wanting
to hear new voices
for quite a while.

For a thousand-thousand years
my hands have held tightly
holding weapons of self-destruction
or bouquets of hope
squeezing the cold and unresponsive hands of life lost too soon
clawing at dark and imaginary walls
prisoners of silent screams echoing through time.

My hands have caused pain,
and they’ve soothed wounds.
My hands have been instruments of wonder, building legends from mist and recording prophecies in stone.

My hands have been unwelcome guests in my own pockets, useless and despised.

Given a true purpose my hands become valuable, irreplaceable tools.

My hands had never touched a home
until the day my secrets poured through the gate they formed over my face, and into her endless eyes, trapped by her attention my mind was a formless void
and she spoke, and all was light.

Raw ingredients in the hands of a culinary master know the pleasure I felt that day, when she took my hands and my pain and transformed me into a work of beauty, a composition of cultured cohesion.

She had been waiting for my hands, my lifetime of a thousand centuries clinging desperately to secrets, lonely and aching.

She took me, her long-awaited love, and kissed my wounds out of my hands, away from my brutish touch and into the gentle garden of her care.

She lifted the veil of mortality from my eyes and revealed to me my personal divinity, and in my newfound godhood
she found her intentions and unspoken desires made alive by my hands.

And I try harder at this than anything else, because every heartbeat leaves an uncertain pause,
will this be the last?

How it feels to love another
more than you can explain to yourself
is a tiny taste of hope between breaths
lingering in the space where
nothing is permanent.

With ferocity and gentle administration
my hands have given what has never
been mine to keep, emptying thoughts and words, passing around plates of poetry, plenty for everyone,
take what you will.

I’ve lived this dream long enough
to have absolute knowledge
that the eyes in my heart will close
the love I live will end

and she breathes and I
take it personally
when she mumbles in her sleep
I am convinced it must be a dream of me, of my touch.

And I know the song I want to sing, on the day she leaves, I know the words I will say when she dies, because I know that our love has terms and conditions, there’s an unknown expiration date.

One day, one of us will leave the other,
too soon, too soon, it will always be too soon, if it was a million years away it would be too soon.

Until that day we enjoy what cannot last

We have fun. We laugh. We try. We give.
Honest and purposeful effort, all day every day. We put aside our individual
“Right now”
And we focus on collective
We wake each day and steer the ship toward bedtime, and we work on getting there together.

We have our problems, my hands are not the only ones full of the past.
We’ve both carried too much.

We don’t promise forever, we don’t know how long this universe will last, if it’s real at all, if anything is real.

But, I tell her, I will find you,
no matter where you go.
She answers, I will wait,
no matter how long.

I know this love story seems familiar, you’ve heard the tale a billion times and a part of your heart wants to believe and a part of your mind knows it cannot be true

It’s true.

And when I say she’s different from anything you know,
I’m trying to make you understand that I’ve seen life, I’ve searched the universe
She’s nothing you’ve seen, she’s nothing you will ever see, a unique and private bit of magic, made only for me.
In her love I become everything.
I am only for her, nothing without her, incapable of losing with her by my side.

When I say we have something special
I mean we have something that has never existed, in this life or any other, in any time or place, what we have has no common ground with any fairytale or legend, what we have is insanely solitary.

This is not rhetoric.
This is real, as real as my hands, as real as her hair wrapped in my hand, as real as her voice whispering fiercely in my ear, as real as I have never been away from her.

What I’m saying is that my past, my life, my damage, my hands and the hurt they hold are sacred in her love.

I’m telling you that I can die
right now, happy
blessed beyond belief

because she
because we

I’m saying
This life is perfect.

[Matthew D Eayre is newly 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 and his Facebook page Poetry of Monsters ]

Live Interview: Jasper Kerkau, Matt Eayre, with Justin from JustInspireTV at SD Event

Interview with Jasper Kerkau, Matt Eayre, with JustInspireTv at Sudden Denouement Event.



Jasper Kerkau Writing

A Note from Jasper Kerkau


I want to take a minute and wish everyone a very happy holiday. This has been a wonderful year for Sudden Denouement and Sudden Denouement Publishing. The holidays can be blissful and arduous. I want to apologize for lack of communication over the last couple of weeks while I dealt with work and personal matters. Over the next couple of days, I will be finally have time to make corrections to the site, assign new editors and begin moving SD to the next level. I want to thank everyone who has given their time, passion, and vision to our humble collective. We have put together the premier collection of writers on the planet. Over the course of the next couple of weeks, I will be working with others and make the process more cohesive and share the responsibility. I want to give a special thank you to David Lohrey, Nicole Lyons (thank you for your friendship and counsel), Olde Punk, Sam Lucero (there is a special place in the next world for Sam for the work she does without asking for recognition). I will be adding two new editors who I feel will bring new energy to SD.

There was a time I would bombard our writers with my emails—especially OldePunk.  As writers, we often fall into strange places. We live in the darkness and the light. I look forward to getting caught up with a lot of you, getting input about the direction of SD. I will get caught up on emails, but I promise not to overshare.

I appreciate every one of you. SD has been the beacon for me to find my way out of the darkness. The future is very bright. Each one of you is touched by the light of the universe. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. We are doing something special.

Jasper Kerkau

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.]

Poetry: Buy, Sell, or Hold – David Lohrey

Poetry: Buy, Sell, or Hold?

I sent my new poem to an old friend who replied:
“I know nothing of poetry.”
Another said about the same. “I don’t read the stuff.
Sorry.” It got me to thinking.

Had I sent in a stock tip, they would have rewarded me.
I might have received a bottle of Chablis, maybe even a good one,
had I sent in trading data on Nasdaq or the New York Stock Exchange.
Who would have said, “I’m not into making money.”?

But one comes to learn an awful truth about one’s friends.
Not just their indifference; that’s painful enough.
No. It’s that for them poetry is something akin to masturbation.
They don’t want to hear about it. It’s an embarrassment.

My friends are always buying or selling. If I had produced a tomato,
I’d have been advised to set up a stand on the sidewalk.
The price of tomatoes is high, asparagus even higher,
but poetry is nearly worthless; like trying to sell one’s teeth.

Poetry is not a commodity. My friends are merchants.
It’s a shameful action, like going to Confession.
Can you sell your sins? How much do one’s dreams weigh?
Nobody wants to watch a friend display himself.

It’s not that poetry is disgusting. But it may be shameful.
It’s seen as a waste of time: not an adult activity, not a good investment,
something more akin to gathering pine cones or pressing leaves in an album,
i.e., kid stuff, or a hobby for little old ladies.

I feel like a cat taking a bloody mouse to her master.
As I drop my poem at my friend’s feet, she gives it a glance
and sneers: “What’s that for? It’s not very pleasant.
Your job is to please me. Go play in the garden.”

That’s the response of my once best friend. She sees herself as an artist
or at least claims to be artistic. She wouldn’t treat a painting the way she scorns poetry.
But then again you can own an oil. You can hang it.
Even better you can resell it.

Stocks and paintings are good investments, like real estate.
Cars and furniture lose value, more like a poem.
They’re best when new, but with art, the worth is in its place,
they say. It’s not just beauty; it’s location, location, location.

Poetry is a dying art, especially when the artistic disown it.
They’d rather have crème brûlée or pear mousse with walnuts.
It’s not only prettier but something sweet. Poetry is no treat, and poets
are a nuisance. They have the absurd idea that what they do has value.


[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]