Unrequited – Jasper Kerkau (Revisited)

Sudden Denouement Literary Collective


Unrequited (originally published on Secret First Draft September 9, 2016)

Scorched earth;
everything ruined.
Not a speck of light-
no hope.
Nauseous reality,
vomit on the floor
in hair.
Bloody residue;
soft red mixes with water
and bile.
Pushing away, feel of
cold ceramic tile
on face.

Jasper Kerkau is editor and writer for Sudden Denouement and The Writings of Jasper Kerkau.

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Proper Disturbia – Mick Hugh/Mick’s Neon Fog

Mick Hugh-Mick’s Neon Fog

Sudden Denouement Literary Collective

Endstation Sehnsucht / Streetcar Named Desire, A

Proper Disturbia by Mick Hugh (Mick’s Neon Fog)

I’ve again picked the wrong major, ten minutes into the second class I can already tell that – this isn’t the scene for me. Black cashmere, Eddie Bauer plaids; retro Doc Martens, soft spoken emotions: your poetry better enunciate pulpy vulnerabilities. The Professor has asked me to share my thoughts and my diaphragm spasms a smile. I am trying not to laugh. Because what I’ve written down is absurd and too honest to be expected, my thoughts here transcribed for our homework assignment. My thoughts on Tennessee Williams’, A Streetcar Named Desire. The room is silent and serious in its all-ears respect of my turn to speak. I am having a hard time not laughing. I compose myself. I begin to read.

“A Streetcar revolves around the personal absurdities of three individuals forced to live in close quarters. The main…

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Next Door Neighbor – David Lohrey

David Lohrey

Sudden Denouement Literary Collective


Next Door Neighbor – David Lohrey 

The man who moans

Moans because he lives alone.

His moans are not the same

As the couple upstairs.

Say no more.

He moans because he is still alive.

His moans are like sighs.

They communicate isolation. It’s

The human equivalent of an owl’s hoo.

Almost like boo hoo. But not quite.

The guy’s lonely.

When the young men are lonely,

They whistle.

The man who moans can’t whistle,

But he wants company.

He’s lonely.

When we hear moaning, we

Feel discomfort. Humans recognize

Despair. It’s in our genes.

It’s coming and we know it.

It’s basic.

In the meantime, we laugh.

Or whatever. You don’t hear

A lot of moaning from the young.

Nor from the young at heart.

It’s disturbing.

A whistle is a mating call.

The young man wants company.

He expresses appreciation, however

Awkwardly, however rudely. It’s

Base, but it’s…

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new coat-Lois E. Linkens

Lois E. Linkens

lois e. linkens


she saved up her money,
week by week.
in dreams she gazed upon it,
felt its velvet softness
press her cheek.
she counted her coins
at bed time –
look, mummy!
all mine.

pockets heavy with greasy pennies,
oily from her excited hands,
she pointed.
that one – up there.
she’s been saving up,
says her mother.
ah, smiles the lady –
that’ll keep you warm.
nothing will get to you,
in that one!

now it hangs,
threadbare in a cold cupboard.
pockets still stuffed
with powdery tissues,
buttons and beads.

but she has grown up,
grown out of it,
and the world
got to her.

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Like Bonnie and Clyde-S.K. Nicholas/A Journal for Damned Lovers

S.K. Nicholas/A Journal for Damned Lovers

S. K. Nicholas


Suffragette City full of glue sniffers and cheerleaders that dance on pavillions overlooking crowds of addicts and clones and clones and addicts and those women you get who claim to be vulnerable but are really black widows. Pouting and doe-eyed they mesmerise and pull you in and kiss your lips and fill you with wonder but you know they’ll suck you dry and the worst part is you let them do it because you like it that way. They feed you cream cakes and dish out handjobs like sweets and with every blissful kiss they get you right where they want, and even though it hurts later on, right now it’s a pretty sight. So yeah, cream cakes full of jam that dribbles from your mouth that they lick away with their wicked tongues while rubbing your head and pushing you deep into their bosom. They’re full of yeahs, and they’re…

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Dysmorphia-S.K. Nicholas/A Journal for Damned Lovers

S.K. Nicholas/A Journal for Damned Lovers

S. K. Nicholas


Jumping a red light we recite the words of Bukowski to make us stronger. Hitching up yourskirtyou watch my fevered reaction with glee and flash those blood-red gums of yours. Orgasms. Suburbia. Redheads into brunettes as young lovers become estranged in the time it takes to chew a nipple. Sometimes there’s milk, and at others, there’s the slightest touch of our hands as we pretend notknowing each other. If you give me the gun I’ll place it beneath his chin and blow his brains out and as you dance in the spray of blood and fragments of bone that hang suspended in thin air, I’ll take a photo so your beauty won’t fade like everything else. We are the perfect storm. We stand outside of time. As I’m puffing away on my cigarette and blowing smoke out the window you tell me how you finger yourself fantasising about Elizabeth Báthory…

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