Tempest is the word of all my days- erroneouschoices

His eyes charmed me. He was not a word person, he always asked what I meant by charmed. There’s something alluring about seeing novels, short stories and bibles behind eyes that don’t translate through their owners lips. Like an undiscovered island that you’re certain holds a treasure for you but you have to dig deep and hard to reach it.

I fear for myself, that one day my words will start a revolt and become outrageous, and I also hope they actually do. Some truths require a slow bleed and the way I’ve been bleeding out I’m probably the truest thing alive.

We’ve talked, he and I, about me being wild and worse, and much more. It strikes me critically that this minimal wordy man can see straight through me and communicate a thing so profound in poetic form without even knowing his genius.

For all intents and purposes I’m reserved and complacent at all times. The tempest beneath should be shrouded in decorum yet my wild is sweaty and seepy to his piercing island eyes. Remind me of me, please always remind me of me so I don’t fade away. I might die of grace


Read more at Choices in Error

Murder in the thirst- Olde Punk

Murder in the thirst

There is always the murmuring first

Anticipation is just the worst

Do you not think?

No do not speak

Why we brave the waste

There is ever aught but dust

And folly, ever the tides rush

Close to our feet

I’m trapped in the past

And I know you are the last

Of the crimson knights of defeat

Feel my heart beat

In time with the rhythm of demise

I despise and deplore

Blood on the floor and all over

Your precious face

Oh angel of disgrace

Never are you more beautiful

Than with the fear of death

Perfuming your breath

And heavy with the knowledge

Of my damned divine curse

Shadow clouds over the moon

As dawn and dusk meet

Clasping hands over the finality

I embrace you lovingly

The taste of your blood on my tongue

I listen to the dearest murmur

That escapes your lips

And quench the murder

In the thirst
Image courtesy of Pinterest


Olde Punk is an editor of Sudden Denouement and the curator of Ramjet Poetry.  Hockey, food and punk rock junkie.  Total sci-fi/fantasy geek.  He writes, right?

BECAUSE I’M A WHORE WHO ASKED FOR IT – Kindra M. Austin

I quite like the dark side, dear.

Show me your shadows, those

Phallic phalanges, and

Feel up my female.

 

I quite like the fusty spoors of

Spirits, and semen, and plundered

Blood

Fixed to my skin.

 

I quite like the emptiness settled in the pit of me—

The sharp taste on my tongue as I lick the edge of abyss.

 

Because I’m a whore who asked for it, simply by breathing.

 


 

Kindra M. Austin is an author (information on her book can be found here), artist, and a Sagittarius Valkyrie from the state of Michigan—Go Detroit Red Wings! She likes her drinks corpse stiff, music loud as fuck, and classic big block muscle cars. You can find her filing through the souls of the slain at poems and paragraphs. ]

Kindra M. Austin has just published a poetry book.
Click HERE for more information!

Sex During Surgery – Malicia Frost

I made a joke
of pretending to be injured
when actually I was only transparent
the light shining through me
revealing the unforgiving truth;
“you can be better”

but with his latex-clad hands wriggling against my uterine wall
it is so hard to stay anesthetized
all I can do is hold my breath
and pray for release

the source of my problem was an overactive imagination
he swore to remove carefully
“Everything must be kept sterile” he said
while using a rusty pair of pliers
to extract the last pieces of woman from me

It shouldn’t have been me
I cry into the piercing light of the fluorescent
I only wished to be reborn as a more complex being
freed from the prison of fertility and lust
this kind of love
that will leave you naked and ripped open
in a cheap motel bed at 5 in the morning

His are hands that take and take
and I’m the giver that produces
the weeping mother of aborted dreams
I don’t want to sleep with a meat cleaver tucked in between my thighs
and wake up just in time for the slaughter

Am I too alive for you,
my aseptic lover?
Will you need me sedated,
a twitching sack of flesh underneath your blackened fingers?
It doesn’t matter that I’m dreaming of someone else
Blood gushing from mutilated genitals,
my eyes go dim as you pull the mask over my nose
(sooner or later I’ll have to breathe)


 

[Malicia Frost, or Henna, is a hobbyist writer and an aspiring novelist from Finland. She enjoys surrealism, sci-fi and horror, and her works often deal with mental illness. More of her works can be found at her personal blog.]

Girls for Satan – Malicia Frost

My best friend used to whisper:
“Let us lay down our lives tonight
here, at the offering table
let us tie our mouths shut
and tape tongues to our legs!
We’ll never be pure again!”

It was funny, back then
when we were a bunch of chuckling preteens
and would sneak into the bathroom together,
pull out our pocket demons
and dance around the sink as if it was a naked calf.

People say girlhood is full of glitter and carnage
we would collect the heads of boys who over-talked us
and we would let the blood water our throats,
nourish our budding lust for revenge.

I kissed my friend’s naked areola
under the blankets in my bed
while we were hiding from our parents
we chewed bubblegum and performed blood offerings monthly
we cried in the shower at night
and sang for the devil watching us in the the moon
we could fall asleep safely
knowing we weren’t alone.

Oh, now what will our parents say?
Girl rejects god, finds self-realization
Girl is full of itches, can no longer accept place in society
Girl found at devil’s side, drinking absinthe and reading obscene books
Girl doesn’t care what you think
Girl touches herself and likes it.
Girl disappoints the world,
pukes all over your condescending words.
Girl gains safety
through deviation.


[Malicia Frost, or Henna, is a hobbyist writer and an aspiring novelist from Finland. She enjoys surrealism, sci-fi and horror, and her works often deal with mental illness. More of her works can be found at her personal blog.]

| IMAGE CREDIT: Satan2222 by glooh on Deviant Art. |

I-float-until-I-am-hung / I-am-hanging-while-I-float-Introducing New Sudden Denouement Member Aakriti Kuntal

You will often find me hanging loosely

Like structures of dust, under the mattress,

above the mattress, on the shelf, the window,

the bookrack, in the things I touch, in the things

I mirror

 

Mother said ‘ You should have died sooner ‘

 

I wonder if I should have plucked my naval

into a bleeding pool and draped the umbilical cord around my paper

corset, a Sakura hangman’s knot

 

I rinse my throat every morning as I enter the mirror

in my threaded bluish gown, my face cut and placed,

Like seismic continents sewn by beaded colors

 

I take the toothpaste and rub it onto my teeth, lest anyone

detect the stench from a failing me,

run my face under water,

a few hundred times, hoping my skin would grow ameba feet

and hide inside the uterus of damp pipelines

 

Hoping then that all of me would follow

and I would be like a balloon gently massaging its belly

against lavender corns of air,

waistline glowing,

while a counter rested inside the crotch,

waiting to puncture all life

 

I watch the doctors arrive in their whitewashed suits and

surgical eyes, their occasional smiles disturbing

the atmosphere of possible murder,

The lights loom over my face as if to have a good hard look,

as if to mock, once again

 

You will often find me hanging loosely

Like structures of dust, under the mattress,

above the mattress, on the shelf, the window,

the bookrack, in the things I touched, in the things

that hold


Aakriti Kuntal is a 24-year-old emerging poetess from the country of veritable colors and stratified rainbows, India. A Network Engineer by profession she has been writing for over a year now. She enjoys nature, music, all things geeky and all things art.

Aakriti writes for the Writings of Aakriti Kuntal Her work has been published in 1947 Literary Journal, Duane’s PoeTree blog, Visual Verse and Indian Periodical among others.

Wire in the Blood-Christine Ray/Brave and Reckless

The line

between the face

I show the world

and my shadow self

increasingly

grows

thin

 

Superimposed

images

blur

No longer clear

where one ends

and the other begins

 

I walk

deliberately

heel to toe

on the

knife’s edge

between

light

and

dark

Heaven

and

hell

Embracing

the risk

 

There is

wire in my blood

Tang of copper

Taste of hot iron

when I lick

the rich

red droplets

off my fingers

from the scabs

I deliberately

scratch open

 

I like

how alive

I feel

when I bleed

There is purity

to my pain

A high

that

happy

never offers

 

I know what

I am

supposed

to want

But my shadow self

wants to drive

for a while

 

That part of me

doesn’t give a

shit

about

content

This shadow me

craves

tightrope-walk-

over-the-abyss-

recklessness

90-mile-an-hour

drives-down-dirt-roads

Back-alley

open-mouthed-kisses

in-a-thunder-storm

There is wire in my blood

and I am the lightening rod


Christine Ray writes for Brave and Reckless and The Whisper and The Roar and is a managing editor at Sudden Denouement and Secret First Draft.

She is an aspiring badass