The Sounds Inside

I watch the birds
rigid and stern,
calling out to me,
singing off the beat.
I am so tired,
so very weary,
words elude me.

Black little jade,
coaxed renegade,
sifting crystals
like glass on worn out
sand, the promised
land, the last bastion
of the hanged man,
I don’t appear on the map,
I don’t appear amongst the
fault lines, the snapping
mountains, the lapsing
glaciers, the dead sea,
the wasteland,

I wish to be far away
when I die, scatter me
in the east, rally to watch me
disperse, clinging to
the rising winds, carried on
the broken wings of
the birds, singing to me,
but thinking of you,
wishing you were here.

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What The Fuck Is An F Bomb?

Ward Clever at his finest.

Ward Clever

You said I should stop dropping F bombs in this library. I said Shhhh. You just pretended to be annoyed and rolled your eyes.

I was kidding. We kissed in the stacks, back by the philosophy section, when no one was looking. I sneaked another one right on your sensuous lips when you weren’t looking. You laughed. Your eyes were closed, as though you were anticipating it. I said so, and you just smiled and looked back at the shelves.

Science! You came up behind me and put your hands over my eyes and said Guess who? I guessed everyone but you, until you insisted I guess by feel rather than sight. I told you I would guess by scent. You were my favorite librarian, and I would know your perfume anywhere. I opened them and your lips were this close to mine, close enough to taste. I tasted them…

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Another masterpiece by Dennis.

RamJet Poetry

This was inspired by my friend Georgia. XOXO


How can I feel so much pain

yet feel nothing how many times have I been stung

yet never touched by the sting

If forever is a fever if never is never

what good is it to be this fucking clever

I know what I know and write it down to show

but no, I’m a low fellow

I cannot go

that way

what use is useless, clueless

sometimes mostly stupid and tuneless

ostensibly deranged but you knew that

so how can I feel so fucking dead

was it something that was said?

because all I suffer is in my head

but it doesn’t hurt, it’s just the pain in the rain singing my name for another go at the game and it’s such a shame that I cannot feel anything

Because if i could, you would have just broken me…..


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Moondrops – Sarah Doughty

The moondrops glistening on your skin mapped out more than just stars that needed to be named. They were constellations, solar systems, and galaxies. An entire universe awaited to be explored, and though I didn’t know where to start, I knew I wanted to discover them all.

[Sarah Doughty is the tingling wonder-voice behind Heartstring Eulogies. She’s also the author of The Silence Between Moonbeams, her poetry chapbook, and the acclaimed novels and novellas of the Earthen Witch Universe. Good news, they’re all offered for free, right here! To learn more about how awesome Sarah is, check out her website, stalk her on Goodreads, or both.]

Quit Your Job and Become a Poet – Georgia Park


Once a week we will be highlighting books by Sudden Denouement members and friends. The first book is Georgia Park’s first book of poetry. Georgia is the personification of the warrior poet. She has an infectious energy I do not see in most writers. I have come to know Georgia very well in this process and can bear witness to her passion for poetry and her unique style of writing. Georgia’s book is available through I would make the case that Georgia’s work is a worthy investment for anyone who has a passion for literature. Georgia defines her collection as such:
This poetry collection has a beginning, middle and an end. It covers two months’ worth of misadventures in the life of an embittered and slightly arrogant young woman who decides to quit her job to become a poet out of spite after being called a few choice names. Sometimes you will like her; sometimes you may not. Sometimes you may laugh or cry or want your money back. But life’s not very fair that way, now is it? This is a coming of age story, and that age is almost thirty ……….
Here is a link for her wonderful collection of poetry: Quit Your Job and Become a Poet. Her website is Private Bad Thoughts.
Georgia also runs a feminist collective Whisper and the Roar. She is always looking for feminist writers. If you are not familiar with it, please take a minute and check it out.
We love Georgia Park. She is an inspiration to us all.
Jasper Kerkau


He films the clouds in two parts – Howl Davies


you spend the day
balancing on piano wire,
romancing with holy fathers,
convicts, and harlot martyrs draped
in derelict scarlet, feeling alive in
the war-torn breach,
you, the survivor,
of life and death, of hunger, strife,
I embed you
in this rendered skin of mine,
you preach and I obey, there
isn’t a night I don’t feel alone,
nor a day I don’t feel anger,
but you atone for me, ringing
brass on the shifting plates,
sifting the off-tune singing
in the base of my skull to a drone,
I always admired you,
always aspired to spread your word,
I have lost my way,
I am just so tired,
this dried blood creeping down
my brow makes this all so unfamiliar,
the gore has no source, and its
destination – unclear, it lingers,
like the ghost of a marriage, mingling,
biding time to gnaw on the stitches,
you taught me to keep myself humble,
digging ink into my fingers
for the switchblade mistress I admire
so fondly, the silent claim, the sister of mercy
I’m sure I will see her soon,
and from there, who knows?
maybe I’ll look to salvage myself,
kiss this unbuttoned pattern of my neck,
is that what you would have done?
you always had a plan,
even when the doctors pulled back your chest,
startled by your marble heart
you always had a plan.


you took the reckoning out of the end-game,
and as you waved goodbye,
showing the world up with a smile
you threw the fight,
we knew you were far from done,
we buried you with your camera at your breast,
you always wanted to spend your days
filming the clouds,
we left you with a dozen reels,
I hope they didn’t weigh you down,
my friend, your repast awaits you,
capture the clouds as they languish,
a backdrop for the labyrinthine streets
we paint ruby and sapphire in your image,
and coax the hinges of the boulevard,
we all miss you,
the rag-tag gathering of singed daydreams,
the ruthless and the sweet, igniting
crushed velvet, the scent of freedom,
we were so foolish,
enduring in hushed nonchalance till
we see what you captured, unfurling what
you distorted, the fly-trap paintings stained
in the vapours, double-sighted passion
in the remnants of engagement, with you
this collateral disfigurement was a delight,
no matter how my casing crept and shifted,
we couldn’t both make it out alive, time to collect, time
to set you free, set you back, set you out of the hive,
the forefront for the wretched,
don’t forget me, please,
as you bring colour to the
autopsy of saint Sebastian,
as you kick a hole in the sky,
fasting amongst seraphs,
catching your Serbian montage
in the heart of the tempest.

[Howl Davies is the spectral puppet master crawling in The Sounds inside.]