A Stable Life

by Mick Hugh

For three years I’ve sat up in my tree,
in the shade of dreams,
and the roots have slowly
been drying up.

For three years catching wafts
of the vinegar and rotted fruits,
of our American Dream,
recessive trait of responsibility.

Who knew at the age of 22,
hot-blooded crotches
and itchy skin for sunshine,
that a Fortune 500 would be their Jubilee?

What pederast had it out at 18
to be a financial manager
at corporate Walgreens?

The treelimb you sit on breaks,
and the fall takes a few months.
Rat cages and sychophants
fed twice as much for listening.

The heroics of monotony.

Remember your days
reading textbooks at your desk,
group projects and algebraic thinking:
Little Davey you’ve been cultivated for this.

No need for you to sweat callouses and rough hands,
they’ve got another desk for you.
Pear-shaped where the body-fat masses on their seats,
little economic engines-that-could.

Genetically modified flowers
blossom without sunlight,
without color or stamens;
a horse without nuts
makes an easier ride.

Have a house,
have a kid,
be well-fed.
Pad your stable.

The American frontier
is a corral on Main Street,
Maple Street
and daydreams of Carnival Cruises.

Masturbate on lunch break,
a few white tears
in a bathroom stall.

Life lived,
life lost,
100 million limp-necked stiffs
have cordoned-off unnecessary risks.

Welcome to your stable, kid.



Mick Hugh is a writer for Sudden Denouement, and the groundskeeper at Mick’s Neon Fog.

Cohen, Cave, and Joy Division Crash This Bar

by Nathan McCool


I gather up abandoned bottles kissed with

cherry lipstick and cigarette scents – bring them to my lips and eavesdrop on the white noise inside.

“Come on back in, one more time, for the encore of “The Butcher Boy”; come in for

the closed viewing of PSR B1919+21.”

And this is when the boredom of barrooms

comes alive.

Right at the moment I emit pulses

that tell the masses I am not part of them. I’m sending you a signal, you tiny, little world.

See me here spinning and burning in my own

mind. I hop on stage to sing you a melancholy ballad and follow it up with “Tower of Song”.

That’s where I am. Another hundred floors below Hank Williams

and screaming to tell you,

“It’s the loneliest down here.”


Nathan McCool is a member of Blood Into Ink and the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective. You can find the haint, dusk, and sizzling of his concrete snares on his blog, Mist of Melancholia.

The Night is for many things but …

misterkaki

I would rather walk

my authentic steps into the night,

embracing obscurity,

than remain pliant fodder

for certainly lovely honey-traps

laid aforehand, by well-meaning pity.

The night and me

we are one abiding,

our abode,

beyond the reach you seek,

with your contrivances,

of lightmaking.

If you wait

until my return

then we may talk,

as equals.

You bring the true light

and intent

and I,

bring my friends,

of the dark.

Then,

we will sit,

in the balance,

of mutual possibility.

Arico Nuevo

26 November 2018

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call (l’appel du vide)

Fallen Alone

and for years i’ve heard it-
a call

a lover’s call;

whispering and settling over my bones
like my skin does
– on most days when it is not being pulled apart
by those laodicean sparrows –
like a vow does
– during weathers when they bury their tongues
in octagonal caskets anchored
to my wrist –
like longing does
– each time the night parts my thighs
and slips in –

within

where a stranger voice from the skies
– from the void –
echoes.

••ra’ahe khayat

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Like me

erichmichaels

CF30B86C-E15E-4F49-A2E5-063BECCDA3F9

Are you like me?

Never really sure just how others take you

Do they really like you or just tolerate you?

When they laugh at your jokes

Are they being courteous or sincere?

Are you like me?

Giving those you meet the benefit of the doubt 

Assigning a whole backstory to why they did what they did

Justification for treating you shabbily 

Are you like me?

You dutifully take in the sorrows of others

Everyone’s therapist they can vent on

But can’t open up yourself

Either for fear the floodgate will never close 

Or being thought of as weak

Or facing your own frailty 

Are you like me?

Do you come undone?

At the thought of the pain and sorrow 

That is being endured in the world

At any given moment

Are you like me?

Despite your emotional connection to the world

You’d rather stay…

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#tbt I Say That I Lost You

Brave & Reckless

I say that I lost you

as though you were an umbrella

that I carelessly left on the bus

after the summer rain had stopped

I say that I lost you

as though you were a conversation

that I dropped the thread of

when I became

distracted by fireflies dancing outside my window

I say that I lost you

as though you were a book

I insisted that a friend borrow and read

that was never returned

I say that I lost you

as though you were a bet

a wager

I could easily afford to place

To say that I lost you

is to say that the world that I knew has ended

that the universe has been torn violently in two

that time has stopped like a broken pocket watch

whose hands now stand empty

reaching for a tomorrow

that will never come

© 2017 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All…

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Mood, Moonlit

Insights from "Inside"

I sowed the seeds of my own destruction

coated in the guise of a mother tongue

while the drizzle of doom

soft and silent

drips

drops

/my sibilant sis/

I ate from the cap of the amanita

scarlet brooding senorita

swooned to the tune

of a glass-looked fall

spat the spores

/blood admonition/

I dabbled in a dab of diablerie

swaddled as I was with faux coterie

dawdled long among tip-toed tulips

placed dibs on the crux of wizardry

I raise my glass

chipped, half-empty

toast with the devil

/wed moonlight/

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