of suicides and the living-Fallen Alone/Ari Purkayastha

Stunning writing from Ari Purkayastha from Fallen Alone

Fallen Alone

as your hand falters and falls between five lines of a music sheet, torn right before a hastily scribbled apology. suicides do that. they climb over your back and break your spine with the slightest pressure of their voices, while you still hear the hum-
missing a note. skipping a note like it never existed.”


there are too many different sorts of variations to this song and i still couldn’t seem to remember the first line before you were gone.

i never knew that you could lose people to the turbulence of a whiskey bottle until you proved that gravity was unbiased; that a one litre bottle could be just as deep, and hold just as many coffins as the bermuda triangle.

guess you learn something new each day.

sometimes i wish you hadn’t left anything behind. voices tend to have a ghost like ability to be heard…

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Accelerate-Olde Punk/RamJet Poetry

The dazzling OldePunk

RamJet Poetry


Temper temper

unrepentant apologies

flash-point peripheral

standard procreation

sub-optimal alliteration

juxtapose a finality

upon mind-bending


heard the herd run toward a curb

slipshod shitshow

worrying on the nod

8 cylinder biped

gloriously hateful

Machine shop low ride

drop top nonsense

no kidding around

when so down

all washed out

in the basin

Need to find that rest stop

for the spirit

close to empty

where can you buy

fuel for soul

open highway curtain call

just a little Need, just a small desire is all

tripping on a breakdown

cluttered cerebral


pavement back-beat

floating on rubber rearguard

chromatic armor thrumming

in time

with sporadic


piston pounding

out the sounds

of slow derision of self

on the shelf

by the pictures of formality

take the keys and run

must find more

before this half-life

eats the core, encore


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I See Her from a Distance – Jasper Kerkau

The amazing Jasper Kerkau

The Writings of 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…

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Tasting Pain – The Remix

The divine Nicole Lyons

Nicole Lyons

I loved him – intensely.
Throat bared, holes in the walls,
sirens wailing – intensely.

But god, did I love him.
I knew we would end
before we had even begun.
But my name was blackened
on his chest and
confessions had been whispered
at three am and
I couldn’t breathe without him.

And until you have
tasted pain as sweet as his,
you can’t begin
to understand.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

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Firefly By Hannah Munroe

Hannah Monroe shines in this poem from The Whisper and The Roar

Whisper and the Roar


[Poem by Hannah Munroe]

Like a cleopatra but with more legs
I shine so bright but it’s not beautiful like a firework
Danger like the Lightning
We buzz around each others atmosphere
I bring the heat down to you
But your light is so cold
You’ve always been a nomad – man in flight
And like the Lightning that goes straight to the dirt that is where I stay
No one cares about your shining beams from down here
I can see all your edges from the ground
The insight is my only advantage to this field I am stuck on

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God found a better job

The brilliant Mick Hugh of Mick’s Neon Fog

Mick's Neon Fog

I hear echoes in the walls, the rattlings of a voiceless savior. Bills pinned to the pantry, I can only sit here and drink and clear my head enough to think that maybe there’s a way to clean the water from our floors. It’s been pooling here a while, coming up to our shins, late nights home from work up in four hours for the next commute. You come home in the mornings sometimes from a bar and find me sleeping on the couch, curled in sweatshirts under blankets. The crib in the bedroom is quiet, swaying gently, and you feel the child’s forehead just to know he isn’t ice. We’ll have a tax return soon to buy heat and more booze. Anything to stay warm and hear the echoes in the walls.

Dreams tend to ferment in vats of wasting time.

You didn’t see me cry as I drove…

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