A Pleasant Feeling-Mick’s Neon Fog

Mick’s Neon Fog goodness!

Mick's Neon Fog

Here on the roof day-drinking and we are quiet. The talk was small for the most part, and eventually when the talk began to loop ‘round to politics and the spirit world, we silenced ourselves, and gave ourselves room to think quietly. Up here on the roof day-drinking – Spring is new and Winter is old, and the cold that kept us cramped beneath blankets on the couch has turned into something refreshing and almost virile. The fresh air touches my groin. The sunlight fading near the end of a long afternoon, its grapefruit hues color the air. There is something faintly exciting about this time of day, a vague expectation of having something to do or to enjoy. Of places to go.

From up on my roof I can see the road and how it wraps the planet. Long dusty stretches of highway; rust-eaten gas stations in Michigan. Romance…

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Manuscript-Olde Punk, RamJet Poetry

Epic writing from Olde Punk!

RamJet Poetry

prime

Serial killer calm

a mark few bear

misanthrope guide to hell

more and more, the deeper dive

sea-green vase holds nothing

Hate is a kind of peace

Peace is a kind of bait

need to relieve the mind

a back strained by burden

borrowed middle age

snatches of conversation

uninterpret the secret

horror commonplace factor

PhoBia is god

War is a chess-game

for kerosene shadows and shopping malls

earthen throat will swallow the bodies

not to be forgotten

they will park blackstone on your head

Should not remember the past

courage in desert pains

invisible walls under holy sun

light Mecca or Jerusalem

who’s to say?

crusade while Korea slept

blind idiot fumbling

wretched devious ploy

to incarcerate the actor

and swing shut the cellar

bring someone to study

probing mindless to die

if not to live

writings lost in the storms

the answers ravaged by floods

an explicative directed…

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Bath time-The Hero’s Inferno

Knockout write from The Hero’s Inferno

Hannah Wagner

Lying in radioactive blue water
No bubbles but they say it’s good for the skin
I slide back and forth like a water park
Trying to mix the hot and cold
I rocked the boat
Cracked the ceiling
I dropped straight down to the floor
No where to land nothing to catch me
My parents sit stunned by the Christmas tree
I wake up in a bed
IV drips drips up my arm
I wonder if you’ll visit me now
What will you think
The bathroom tiles marbled in my face
I suppose you’ll never steal another kiss
I suppose it will never be just us again
It was always my skin you loved
Not anything that lied beyond

My eyes blink open to the same blue water
I check the mirror
All a dream
A perfect angel looks back at me
And I still I think it is the…

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fourteen years and a half – Fallen Alone/ Ari Purkayastha

Magnificent writing from Fallen Alone’s ari purkayastha

Fallen Alone

my rhythm,

fourteen years and a half has passed
yet somewhere your beat
still resonates,
for i remain not much
but a collection of stories
bound in a novel of erased memories.

you echo.

i remember neither the sound of your laughter,
nor the way you whispered my name.

or how ever our air bent to collect your voice
and deliver, the cherished baritone
of your lips,
unscathed and treasured
within my years

for i like a fool, failed to revere words,
whose absence today
haunts me.

you pulsate.

we remain truly torn
yet i find myself tangled in these strings,
bearing the throb of your veins
like a drum, rolling upon my skin,

and i shiver for those million whips
osculate the blood within,
and they rise
to match your tempo.

you reverberate.

an autumn wind
beats against barren branches
whence no leaves dance to,
and I am engulfed…

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Don’t Over Text Me-Georgia Park

“I’m commitment phobic and I actually like you. I want to text you all the time and eat you out for hours and cook you dinner.”

“Please do not over text me, I’m too busy.”

“I’m gonna do it right now.”

“That’s silly. I’m standing right here, and I refuse to respond.”

My phone vibrates, and I don’t touch it. He smiles at me. It’s very awkward. I have a giggle inside me that I’m hiding, for good reasons.

I look at him sternly, exhausted.

[Georgia Park is 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.]

Everything Wasn’t Enough – Jasper Kerkau

Laughter echoes down long hallways, gives way to arguments and eventually more giddy children’s laughter. Plastic toys are left in my restroom, socked feet bouncing on beds, falling down and I scream from the other room. There is silence that eventually erupts again with the delight and carefree abandon of childish glee. I bury my face in my hands at my desk, waiting, waiting, always waiting for everything to change, for the laughter to eventually stop, the shadows to take over, the long unwinding of a life built on endless toil–nothingness.

The sword of Damocles looms over me. My skull anticipates the shattering strike; blood and fragments of bones mixed in a concoction of death.  My fate sealed by icy hands. Alas, they have come to purge me of what is left; they have come for my children. They have come for my words; a blind witness, left with the bloody rags of silence, childless, suffering for the sins of my oppressors. Blood upon blood upon blood. They relish in feasting on my fear and devour my heart, desperately trying pull the fruit of my loins from my bosom. Am I vanquished?

Splayed on cold table, I am pulled apart slowly. My eyes affixed on the past, the mistakes left in closets among unmatched shoes and discarded summers. It all rolls off of me as the they slowly drain my life, whisked the children away, leave my words fatherless, left as an empty vessels that once held such promise. I could have been better. I could have been better. They smirk and guffaw, standing over me with forks and knives, waiting to dine on my soul, exposing their vicious appetites. Will everything be enough?

There is something inside me that is immune to their illicit desires. I hear the hymn of sacred souls, the chorus of magnificence sang from distant places, songs of hope and sorrow. Each voice carries its own unique message of personal salvation. I am not alone; they cannot destroy my sacred vision, the words sewn with the sinews of travail and perfect love into each verse. I am a writer and a father, with undying affection for my children; the words create divine tapestries which can never be wrested away from me. They will live long after I am gone.

I stand steadfast in the light, accompanied by the remnant chosen for the articulation of suffering, their special dispensation due to the ability to speak the secret language of the universe, their affliction decoded and turned into consecrated arias. The shadows will eventually flee, leaving me vindicated, left to tend to my words, nurture my children, guard them from the profane hands which seek to drag them into the dark places, strip them of their beauty and joy. There is nothing that can stand against truth, innocence, and pure love. I hear a voice in the darkness, fingers intertwined with my own: “I love you daddy.”


[Jasper Kerkau is a managing editor and writer for Sudden Denouement and editor and writer for The Writings of Jasper Kerkau.]

A Furious Ascension-Nicole Lyons

furious-ascension

She watched stiff-backed

girls in snow-white paper

dresses flying,

their speckled kites

low to the ground,

and she called

for the great gusts

of angry winds

to blow in and catch

the corners

of those dresses

and their kites,

and take them

all, tangled together

into stormy places

behind her eyes.

Sweep them

into deep places

where held breath burns

against walls of lungs

before sighing

into ecstasy.

Leave them

in dark places

where terrified screams burn

the backs of throats,

and rip pain

into pleasure.

Bury them

among stark bones

that found their lustre

in the depths

of her own mind.