And So… by Olde Punk

And So… by Olde Punk (RamJet Poetry)


And so…

I wrote it down

I thought it out

It is in the skies

And in your eyes

And in the way

I thought it out

I wrote it down

Combine some paint and sin

A portrait of where to begin

At the end of days

I wrote it down

I kick it around

When I come to know

The plots we cannot show

This will be the day

I thought it down

I wrote it out

It’s pulling me under

And tearing us asunder

I am so afraid

That come what may

On that day

What I wrote down

Rings out the truths

Of our dismay

‘Cause I wrote it down

I thought it out

Unable to conquer

The words of iron

Wrought to hold the way

We beseech you

To be mindful

Of that which

You write to us

I know that you wrote it down

You thought it out

I felt the words hammering

My brow today

Smithing words for me

To interpret in your archaic

Tongues that scurry around

My ears as wisps of wind cold

To touch the eternities

Of writing it down

And thinking it out.

And so….I think you know.

Olde Punk

RamJet Poetry


I see her from a distance… Jasper Kerkau


I see her from a distance. Her beauty touches me; I leer at her soft curves, following the fabric of her blouse as it cups her breasts, exposing the pang that is buried deep in my heart. She possesses magic, entranced I watch her laugh, tilting her head back, eyes alight with life and passion. I feel detached, removed, paralyzed by an inability to put myself into the fire. Then I start to untangle her in my mind, seeing the tarnished edges, the patina of carelessness and her jaded essence, thousands of hours at bars, the thick smoke, the flirting with nothingness, the deep sadness of wasted years childless and selfish.

Do I really want it that bad?

Again, I feel it welling up inside of me, aching for release, tangled up in flesh, skin soaked and pressed again skin, the vapid exercise of disappointment and sadness. It is all so fleeting. The tongue tangled kisses and sexual dynamic created out of a need to not experience the haunting, numb feelings that are birthed from the unique tragedy of guarded loneliness. I could possess her, drive my desires deep inside her, go through the motions, touch my lips to her flesh softly in hopes of finding a wet place to disappear, but all I really want is love, the substantive connection that is not created from situations like these—with girls like her.

Can I live without it?

I steal gazes, thinking of the ways I would turn her inside out, trying to justify talking about imported coffee afterward, acting interested in white wine and her views on social media. I can visualize myself slipping away, losing the moment and trying to figure out how I would escape after touching her flower, pulling the petals off one by one, finding a bathroom window unlocked. Too many fears and defenses, the end can’t justify the means. I don’t need it that badly. So I sit making vapid, mind-numbing chatter with strangers, not looking her way, not taking the chance—it would all be an exercise in futility. My desires are packed back into my heart. I feel alone, long for something engaging and real, compassionate eyes, the “everything is going to be alright” one gets from in a warm embrace that is not driven by dark urges but by sincere longing to live inside of another.


Jasper Kerkau

Sudden Denouement Literary Collective



My Foolish Heart – Sperantia Zavala


My heart burns for a love I’ve never known,

infatuation one reads about in a dirty novel; running his fingers through her soft hair, she gets goose bumps, smitten by his touch.

The rest is up to imagination; mine takes me to an erotic place satisfied with sensual pleasure.

This nagging desire for sizzling passion never goes away;

it is as unpredictable as the roll of the dice.

If you are lucky, you win!

If you are unlucky, you lose….

When it slips away, a lingering disappointment is left stinging at the core.  

Does fortune possess our destiny in this coveted fascination I seek?

I think I had it once–maybe twice? Well, there was that third time, which wasn’t such a charm.

For unfortunate, and obscure, reasons each connection disintegrated slowly unraveling over time.

Perhaps my chance at experiencing true adoration is forever gone.

Is there such a thing as faithful love?

I see other content souls; it is written on their faces–they have found and possess, that which feels not meant to be. 

Oh, but then there are many with their twisted, bellyaching stories of dysfunction and matrimonial misery.

Perchance there is still hope! Our paths have not crossed, a smoldering optimism whispers in my ear amid hot breath on my neck.

Timing is everything; the years are disappearing one after another.

Emotional barricades protect, so I am more than good without you here with me—I don’t need you.

Yet, you are never far from my thoughts; my heart burns like an inferno for your touch.  

By Sperantia Zavala (Sudden Denouement Collective) 


Mechanized Paranoia

Digital positive from celluloid negative.

by pbbr

Everyone who passes me holds my life in their hands. I can’t stand to look at them but I do. Faces behind dirty windshields, eighteen wheelers and Volkswagens, minivans. They carry the lottery card that wins my violent death, each and every one of them. In their wallets, their purses, their consoles. Only one will be lucky enough to punch it. But which one? Was it him? Her?

Wrinkled faces, hackneyed brows and unshaven jowls, they mock me with moonslatted eyes. Drivers rocketing by in a blur. I only catch glimpses of them but they seem to know everything about me. They can smell my watery fear. I can tell by the way they catch my gaze, some lightly grinning, others drooling with murderlust. Stay in your lane. Please.

A twolane highway, a nighttime deathrow chamber, paved just for me. Guttural machines roaring. Mountain roads and overpasses, headlights, gaslamps, the sides of my vision iridescent with flashes. Sweet rotting stench of bloated roadkill gone on before me. Seeping through the cracked window, through the vents. I will stink soon, I whisper. I feel sorry for the wildlife. But not as sorry as for myself.

There goes another one. Whizzing by. Close enough to taste its fuel. Was it a German sportscar or Austrian I’m not sure I even know the difference just another mobile slaughterhouse powered by genuine Bavarian steel and pistons and cylinders sucking in the besmirched air and gurgling highoctane and belching out clouds of noxious exhaust screaming blattering cutting through the motorway on four wheels of whitehot polyurethane glowing from the friction the fiction my diction is lost all my fingers are shaking what a cost I have paid the asphalt is laid in wide streams of solid black rivers I shiver in my sweaty boots and hold on to the wheel I feel surely everything is lost

Every roadway is a screaming tomb. I trust no one and nothing yet I hold out in trembling hands the fragility of my life to each passing motorist. Please don’t kill me, I whisper. But that one laughed. Is he the one? Is he? A pockmarked teen who has yet to feel anything more in his cheesestained hands than a videogame controller and a few slippery gropes at budding breasts? And now the steering wheel of my mechanized death? Is he? He might be. I’ve handed over my life to him and I don’t even know his name.

That trucker, high in his cockpit of doom. Did you see his smirk? Through yellowrotted teeth he screamed, through methfumes and snotdried mustache wind, I smelled the hiss of his breath. He is coming head on.  I just know he is the one. The grill is stained with bugs and drugs and children who needed hugs and soon my sinewy brain it seems.

Get out of my rearview I don’t know you the speed limit is much slower you bastard I can’t go any faster please turn off your brights the night is fine without your lights without my spine ripped from its seat and scattered like a brokeback snake on the street my brakes are worn and the side of the bridge is torn and there is a perfect place to pull over and pass let off the gas let off my life stop this carnival ride of strife I didn’t sign up for this drive