World Poetry Day, yay

RamJet Poetry

wpd

use your indoor voice

said the monster to the man

grinding turbines winter of solace

nocturne animalization of our future

sedate the sedition

cut away cancer clean

parabolic nations

offer love to the fidelity of distress

comatose virulent vocations

of nihilistic interventions

USE YOUR OUTSIDE VOICE

with no plan you take the stand

and garble truths to headline time

universe just waiting for the next take

push back gender war fealty

pay what you owe you know

blast from the past, happenstance

ma ma ma ma microphone

tiptoe to the wilting

only raise your finger in traffic

furnace speaks its own way

harvest shrapnel mincemeat in the hay

everyone is all good, just ask

and they will say so

but who are you fucking kidding

Jethro Tull induced head spin

march to the pied piper of

insured reformation degradation

balk and take the walk

slapshot newscast telling

the gods what…

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Mesolimbic Pathway

S. K. Nicholas

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When she feels the air in her lungs tighten, she grabs her crayons and draws the animals she sees in her dreams and then ladyparts and skeletons reaching up to the clouds from the dull ground below. When she drinks her wine, she feels a little easier in her skin, and sometimes, when she focuses on the good stuff leaving the bad shit to sink, she touches herself until her body is filled with electricity and there’s nothing but the eye of God that exists deep inside of her somewhere between her heart and her spine. There are so many colours and so many words, and when she bites and chews the air around her mouth, they flash behind her eyelids like she’s in the middle of a lightning storm and then she becomes the storm, and she loses her form, and all that’s left is pure energy. When she comes…

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As We Are – Max Meunier

max

As We Are – Max Meunier

the consequence
your kiss requites
e’er moors my heart’s
intrinsic orbit

gravity
of your exert
affords each breath
its fate anewed

the magnitude
felt by your presence
stays the precipice of earth

your words avow validity
to voices once devoid
of venue

emptiness was heretofore
now understated
understood

stoic walls
electric impulse
chemicals, reactive substrates

ushered by the impetus
of oscillating frequencies
athwart velocities in flux

a symphonic polarity
imploding spectrums infinite
through spectred trials
of flesh profound

resounding far beyond
the vacuous expanse of space
in timeless incarnations
as we are

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.

 

Dustin Pickering Interview

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New interview with Dustin Pickering. Dustin is important artist, publisher, and writer. Please take a moment and read his interview. He has been a force of nature in publishing, and I am proud to call him a friend and mentor. He is a bold force in literature and needs to be heard. We are proud to have him as a member of SD.

http://duanespoetree.blogspot.com/2017/06/dustin-pickering-responds.html

From my personal experience, Dustin is a writer who challenges the status quo.

Jasper Kerkau

FLORIDA – Samantha Lucero

let sleeping dogs lie
or if they’re in florida
set them on fire;
let them die.
speaking of the plentiful
imagery of the world
i am the melting ice. i am the gun
on the dashboard to Savannah
for the 4th of July.
i am the word speak
now, or forever hold
your pieces.

for rent: a popular swamp,
far away from the highway.
a tongue left behind with a
womb-scent, a piece of me
in the toilet.
and the dog,
always barking up
the wrong tree.

like mottoes, mildew
crawling up the walls like arrows,
climbing down.
point me away from
the fingers they lick
in prison for nicotine.

they live in a dishwasher so they can
put roaches on my eyes instead
of coins when i die;
this is where he laughed,
where he made me into wax.
they check in, but
they never check me out
anymore.

XXX, at the adult-store
the eyes never sleep,
the mouths catch flies.
the air, like held breath,
is missing teeth, like you.
i lost a tooth there, too.

the boiled, rich pigs,
too poor to die with
their cardboard signs
that say:
‘eat me alive.’
will work for veins.
will work for coca cola
in a glass bottle.

i see gold rings on severed
fingers, it could be a woman’s hand,
but they say that the woman
wears silver, and that
the man wears gold.
the sun, the moon. the moon
reflects the sun. the sun just shines.
and i shine in the dark,
like something not supposed
to be there.

let sleeping dogs lie
or if they’re in florida
they’re already dead.
speaking of the plentiful
imagery of the world
i am the sick-feeling. i am the revenge,
the bullet that belongs in
my head.
i am the expression:
shhhhh.
but you are not the melting ice.
and you certainly aren’t the gun,
there’s just no way that you’re the gun.


[*With a nod to Billy Collins’ “Litany” where the italicized ‘speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world’ was inspiration. Samantha Lucero does sixredseeds. She’s painfully tedious and can’t wait for Halloween.]

Rana Kelly – Until Her Darkness Goes

Rana

Today I would like to highlight the first novel of Sudden Denouement writer Rana Kelly Until Her Darkness Goes. Her book is available on Amazon.  Rana is an accomplished poet, and her novel highlights the scope of her writing. Her website is 2nd star to the left, straight on ’til morning. Please take a moment to step into the mind of Rana Kelly by visiting her site, and I would strongly suggest purchasing a copy of her wonderful novel. A review of her work is forthcoming. We are also very excited about the prospect of publishing her chapbook in the near future.

Synopsis:

Rachael Sullivan is NYC’s top music producer and owner of Red Hand Records, a private record label and a legendary empire of recording studios across the globe. But the music industry is in the toilet. Rock is dead, money is dwindling, and Rachael is on the cusp of losing it all. One night in a dingy London bar, she happens upon a raw talent that makes her believe in rock and roll again. The band is Murder of Crows, and her saving grace is Nicky McCallum, the genius frontman who is overcoming his damage. Both of them connect and find profound love, but they soon discover music and love aren’t enough. Drugs cloud the band’s success. Nick struggles with his addictions and demons, while Rachael fights her bipolar disorder and endures a harrowing loss that tests the strength of her soul. The two fight to save one another and remember what brought them together, before it’s lost in wreckage and blood.

Jasper Kerkau

 

 

Rebuild A Heart-valve – Mick Hugh

The rain had beaten holes in our backs and it was my idea to come here. 2,000 miles from home. You owned a Mazda and I owned a dream, and together we had $40 and no place to sleep. So we did what we always did best. We scrounged, rags and happiness up and down the sidewalk. New friends, old acquaintances, same familiar taste for bum wine. No mattress but a pile of blankets on an old neighbor’s floor but the walls were hard and hid our dirty fucking well. Drunk on rooftops, drunk in alleys, drunk in bars, drrrrrrunk in the library ‘cus it opened at 7 just after the sun and had couches in the stacks to hide our bum lovin’ selves. Towers shined downtown. Neons shined crosstown near the arena. Eyes shined tits shined cocks shined. Dreams hid behind clouds. Nose bled. Knuckles bled in drywall. Hunger struck well. Fever came to days flush red with sun baking without a drop on the promenade. Dry-out, please just dry-out. Uptown sprints to catch delivery trucks, clandestine missions lifting cases of cans. Rowdy downtown. Rowdy uptown. Rowdy ‘cross the college campus getting sex out of wild freshmen. You were talking ‘bout New Jersey and the hills you grew up in. You moved our blankets to the far side of the floor. Leave me stranded, will you, just lock the god damn door? Sail off in your pretty cloud ship, leave the wasteland far behind. You had the keys and the gas and the paycheck I couldn’t steal, a heart I couldn’t hear. I’ll guide you to the alley and watch you beg for bread. Hike up those legs and shut the god damn door. Shut the door and let me wander and close your eyes till I get back. Let me see it from a distance.

I’ll come back sane.


[Mick is a writer/editor for Sudden Denouement, as well as being creator of Mick’s Neon Fog. He has been published in various publications, most recently in Junto Magazine.]