ESP (Esprambles): The Story of Life

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The story of life

The story begins
not in the present,
not with any intent,
but in the mind of the writer,
lost, perusing his tomes,
as he creates a new history
with words filtered through
experiences and such
prismatic domes.

The story may
as well be about another,
or you,
or the men who are forgotten,
like our whims,
and our sins,
whose existence we deny
even in our most
unsettling dreams.

It’s a persistent search,
deep in the circular ruins
of unfinished books
and untrimmed wishes,
and he knows,
he has to take the turn,
that the maze ends
at the simple door,
but the platitudes
and attitudes keep him
away from the ending
and a closure.

The aura of latent
promises in him,
and possibilities
lying under the cove,
illuminates the city
of the writer’s trope.
It draws the
mermaids in plenty,
with its brilliant
nautical lights,
and they come singing songs
made of his thoughts
in those lonesome,
dark and dismal nights.

Harvesting each tune,
each note down to the last fin,
he writes the endings
that he always craved.
But with the songs gone,
a silence prevails,
attracting the hungry sea ghouls
who forage for emptiness
within all his finished scrolls.

Gnawing regrets
about the missed plots,
slowly devours every twist
and turn of the story told.
So when he believed he knew
where he was going,
with a purpose, a sense of direction
and that everything was fine,
it was nothing
but the arc of his story
succumbing to an
insipid straight line.

The silence of the lone ego
now echoes in the empty heart,
filling it with deafening screams
as he fills the pages with questions,
taking refuge in the scribblings,
complaining and complacent
the writer goes on to announce
that it makes absolutely no sense.

Stories don’t however end,
all it takes is another
turn in the maze,
or of releasing the mermaids
from their cage.
The story of life
is all about filling the void,
and letting the songs
fill the empty gaze
till another writer comes along
and flips your scribbled page.

[ESP’s writing can be found on Esprambles.]

Iulia Halatz “Trapeze Artist of the Moon”

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Trapeze Artist of the Moon

“You are in the dark because you are trying too much” – Aldous Huxley

Olden song whispers
in my ear
Able to echo
over the dark milieu
Faint copy of the prudish light
carved in black and blue curlicue
Remotely feeding
the smallness of the evening

The grafter of the moon
loves as if
Love is green silk,
translucent mud
And confession
of slow springs

The whole world
sings in a lily-of-the-valley
Whose tongue is numbed
by the language of the night…
Spoken beauty is never true
It is the paleness of a memory
enlivened
in the protection
of the saffron mornings
Aided by ghosts,
cinders of fear
and abysses
found
While we walk
in ourselves…

The silvery evening
is an intensity
and an immensity.
You live as if
life is a dance
We’d live as if
life is a kiss
from flickering flames
mauve twilights
and festering wishes.
Tentative frosts
cover the shoots
of your dreams
with ice…

We are the masters
of two small islands:
One of carton trees
and hollowed plastic flowers
and One
where the moon lives.

In her eyes
the thawing vernal lights
Endure…

“Writing is an Iron Tale, must be tough and sincere to the core of human perception of pain as valor. I am the grumpy T-Rex who started writing out of pain, not because of a polished world. Writing out of love is painless and herbivore. As we sometimes taste blood, ours or others’. Nevertheless, some words are so expensive that we are better left with them unspoken or write them with the ink of a Ghost…” She is a teacher, small entrepreneur and cyclist.

Introducing Megha Sood “My horror movie”

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My horror movie

That nihilistic pain
simmering in the back
of my eyelids,
or sometimes lodged
like a toothpick in my throat

grabbing my head
like an incessant headache,
numbing my senses
rocking me to the core

that pain is the reminder of your memories
the miasma of incessant pain
as it dug it’s knuckling deeply into
my and kneads me violently
shaking me to the core

giving me the creeps
forever and more
before I give in
always and again
this unbirthing of childhood fears
and the panics which kicks in

oh! my relentless heart
looks for the company
which is soothing
your old gelid fingers
that gut-wrenching
and soul-numbing pain
leaves me in the fetal position

that numbing pain
I feverishly want to get rid of
this whole hamster on the wheel routine
has left me aghast
like a horror movie stuck
on the reels.

[Megha Sood lives in Jersey City, New Jersey. She is a contributing member at GoDogGO Cafe, Candles Online, Free Verse Revolution, Whisper and the Roar and contributing poetry editor at Ariel Chart. Her 290+ works have been featured in 521 Magazine, Statorec, Fourth and Sycamore, KOAN, Visitant Lit, Quail Bell, Dime show review, Nightingale and Sparrow, etc. Works featured/upcoming in 15 other anthologies by the US, Australian and Canadian Press. Two-time State level winner of the NAMI NJ Poetry Contest 2018/2019.National level poetry finalist in Poetry Matters Prize 2019. She blogs at https://meghasworldsite.wordpress.com/]

Twitter: @meghasood16

Instagram: @meghasworld16

Aakriti Kuntal “A Conversation with Death”

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A Conversation with Death

What has skipped
this levitating chest?

The bone hangs like a mantle in midair

You come and collect
the smell of sleep from my mouth,
my anesthetized mouth

You come
over and over

You come,
rowing across white seas

You come and rest in my mouth
The lovely sound of crows conversing

Nobody understands this,
Nobody understands this love,
this endless devotion of yours

But you come,
you come anyway,
You come and lick the whiff of my floating mouth
You eat and glow inside it

You glow, you glow
Together we hook the sky
and play with it in our laps

Together, we make the earth
swim between our lazy feet

Together, we growl
and pounce

Nobody understands this,
this affection of yours

for me
You, from beyond life,
from the rim of death

You, that only travel in lightyears,
Come for me

I,
feeble bone resting on time’s ailing forehead

Bio: Aakriti Kuntal, aged 26, is a poet and writer from Gurugram, India. Her work has been featured or is forthcoming in Selcouth Station, RASPUTIN: A Poetry Thread, The Hindu, Madras Courier, Blue Nib, and Visual Verse among others. She was awarded the Reuel International Prize 2017 for poetry and was a finalist for the RL Poetry Award 2018.

Guest Writer e.a toles “Insomnia of an Altar Boy’s Wedding Night”

Insomnia of an Altar Boy’s Wedding Night

first you learn to parse yourself out.a second of your time can be weighed
in lack of sleep, in a tiresomenesswhich reverberate throughout the day.
my body is thin when I wake,my skin is a flimsy veil
only apt at keeping the obvioushidden, it is well suited for wedding
gowns, for covering dining room
tables.
there are some while have learnedto live on crumbs of a life,
on the bits and pieces left overby those who present themselves
as well meaning, who have mastered the art of reflecting others. you see,
people wish to be clean, eventhose who dine on rusted tins
and sentimental resentments cravethe acceptance which comes
with perceived purity.
each of these nails is preservedfor my coffin, I have little use
for hardened finger tips or crosses,
for protected nubs.
paper cuts happen to the bestof us, even when we swear only
to read custom nuptial vows, pleasof security, of hopeful longevity.
in the end, we value sleep becausewe needn’t remember our dreamsif we do not wish. if only life
were so liminal, so full of the wethorniness of spring, of maddening blooms,
of lust presented without the caveat of human decency.

His writing can be found at crippledengines.wordpress.com

Vicki Wilson : I envy them their herd”

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[Photo: Fellini’s La Dolce Vita]

I envy them their herd

Worn thin
Like fabric rubbed between anxious fingers
For a lifetime
If that lifetime was thirty-seven years
Of purple prose and uneasy decisions
Uneasy… an absence of ease…
Never a word more righteous
More just
For a circumstance
In this lifetime of flitting
Against language like a bug against a bulb
Tink, tink, tink
Steeping myself so deeply in consonant
And in vowel
That they bleed from fingers and tongue
In a incessant babble of babble
Trying to square the throne
I stand behind…

Uneasy… decisions
Made with an absence of ease
Of preservation
A mason jar mind of restless fireflies
Devouring one another
In liquid fire and lightning
That arcs
And cracks
And splits
Across the flat earth they see
And the depths they sail upon
Staring at their own reflection
As though the world
Colouring it with white lies
That I catch on their sleeve
As they fall from their gaping maw
Like salivation, like false salvation
And they wonder why I question
Everything.
Why I wonder… wander… wonder
About everything.
And everyone.

Why…

Decisions are
Uneasy… absent of ease
And I envy them.
Gods how I envy them.
The muted colours they imbibe
The sugar water at which they sup
As though ambrosia
While I starve for honey
And thirst for rainbows
That fall from the sky just out of reach
I envy them
The well worn paths
And hand-me-down shoes
The comfort of the collar and the yoke
While I shoulder a tired bindle
And brace for the wild
Compass, pen and bare feet
Stained
With a lifetime of uneasy decisions
And I envy them
I envy them their herd.

© Vicki Wilson

[Vicki is an amateur poet, a published author and haphazard artist. Drawn to the darker side of whimsy, she strives to impart a sense of beauty to those moments in life when we forget to look for it. Vicki has recently published a children’s book under the banner of dragonflypublishing. You can find her there writing her next one: https://www.facebook.com/dragonflypublishing.au Or instagram at dragonflypublishing.]

Rediscovering Georgia Park: Private Bad Thoughts

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[Photo: Georgia Park]

The Sudden Denouement community, and many others from around the world, have been charmed with the brutal honesty and unique poetic vision of Georgia Park. If you have not read Georgia Park’s poetry, please take a moment and look at her website Private Bad Thoughts. She takes us all on the journey through her life, into her mind as she weaves through the daily struggles and triumphs, which she articulates in a manner that is simplistic and deeply emotional. Her writing is as simple as it is complex. In a landscape of cliches and poetic uniformity, Georgia Park is truly original.

Her writing can be found at Private Bad Thoughts.

Guest Writer: Colin James “THE CONTESTANTS…”

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THE CONTESTANTS DESPITE ALREADY HAVING BEEN CAUTIONED STILL DISPLAY AN IMPERVIOUS CONSPICUOUSNESS

                                    The slide is particularly greasy
                                    hard to stay on never mind score.
                                    Long robotic arms torture,
                                    blinding and tearing great chunks
                                    of flesh and hair, debilitating.
                                    Masses of bodies lay at the bottom
                                    until a siren announces a pause,
                                    then the playing field is cleaned
                                    hosed down with impotent salt water.
                                    Those that are cognizant affect
                                    a worse demeanor than is.
                                    They gain an advantage, stall
                                    walk slower back to the steps
                                    perhaps grab a conspicuous limb
                                    already bloody and precipitant.
                                    Can’t get the grass rug down quick
                                    enough for them, without that
                                    improvisational need for showmanship.
Bio:
Colin James was born in the north of England near Chester. He spent
most of his youth in Massachusetts before moving back to England
and working as a Postman for The Royal Mail, then as a Trackman
for British Rail. He met his American wife, Jane, in Chester and
they currently reside in Western Massachusetts. He is a great admirer
of the Scottish landscape painter, John Mackenzie.