HOLLYWOOD HIGH – Collaboration – A.G. Diedericks & Samantha Lucero

Heathers and jocks, flock together
You and I tethered to Glocks & black
leather
Clocks broken, shot
into a myopic future
We meditate on bloodlust
of a murdered adolescent reverie,
besotted with living forever
The colour of Mondays changed
when I tasted the insidious guile on
your lips; glossed in Carrie-red
you needn’t incentivize this perilous
heart of mine
for you I would cut off my misanthropic
parchment
and illuminate the dark matter
’cause all that I bleed
is you

coiling in a house where hymns burn
hair
damp or dirt, or fire walk with me.
daddy is a watershed in dallas, mommy
is a wire hanger bent out of shape.
the world is an open wound,
and i am the trace.
you are the knife and the wail.
the wide awake.
the boulevards red myths, sight and
sense,
names in squirming lights, and seeds
on the flashing ground.
west coast skinned knees
elastic mouths and bodies
oily eyes in topaz and
gold canines in the skyline.

Ghosting their covenant of wisdom
Parked at the intersection of
dusk & dawn
Up on Mulholland Drive
We succumb to it’s lecherous stratosphere
with Hotel California on the radio
lighting smokes out of a trophy of ashes and tossing it into a hedonist zephyr
as L.A.P.D sirens start to sing in the background
Our fingerprints dusted by
the Chinese Theatre…
Hollywood as our alibi

you can see the wit of vanishment in a
wag of night
spirit and vein and wet, the pacific
rehearsing
my longtime name in the paunch of a
sand dollar where
a lover’s walk will stall with age and
wilt.
with the creek of it to your auricle, it’ll
sail in your ear.
but we are bionic serfs in an electric
city,
cordoned by chapters and eyes
sallower in the dark
dark, dark. can we pry open the
stillborn to find landmarks.
how deathlike are the lights.

Pop culture studies us
The media pine for answers
Clogged with a 60 minute survey
– Did their parents love them?
– Do they have a mental illness?
We side-step their clichés
and break the fourth wall;
Gravitating to the camera with verve
’cause we had a cause to be caustic
when faced with their plastic personas
stalking Beverly Hills fat cats
like taxidermists
And we won’t depart until our followers up stage Manson
Charles or Marilyn, its all the same in Tinseltown
where we carve out billboards
with a paramount question…
Why do you fear the children you’ve raised?

to be continued…


 

[ A.G. Diedericks: “write what you know” are the four most soporific words I’ve ever heard. I am a divergent writer who couldn’t give 2 fucks about striving to be the best. To write only what you know, is to play it safe. Art is imaginative rebellion. I am engaged with the versatile risk takers, the ones who are not afraid to take their shoes off & get dirty. I write & curate at Morality Park. ]

&&

[Samantha Lucero writes books and poetry, short stories, is a historian, heathen and philosophically speaking, an absurdist. Sisyphus being the ultimate example of the absurdity of human existence. She occasionally writes things at sixredseeds.]

BRIMFUL OF GRIM 2 – Collaboration – A.G. Diedericks & Kindra M. Austin

He is the rain on a cold grey day—

the arthritis that ravages my bones

and when he breathes, it’s a Nor’easter wind—

I’m blown apart; shattered;

scattered; kicked about like autumn leaves,

dead

 

Unwritten letters from our post-mortem breathe life into her apparition

Like the weather; she returns to season fresh wounds

Blood pressure tantamount to a volcanic mountain; she hikes my temperature

 

Fuego, fuego! I give him fever; raze his green earth

while he does freeze mine

I exhale phantoms in billowing bursts

and weep for the fugitive memories

 

Her frosted ribcage collides with the arson in my heart; two souls, cremated

We paint every town red;

Ours is a match that burns all bridges

We’re on a road to revive the great depression

 

Ghouls are we without restitution—

to Hell with intuition

Gods warring are we without resolution—

fuck the institution

 

I suck on his brimstone,

a brimful of grim, and he grins with Cheshire teeth

tucked tightly in his head

 

With us there’s no cease fire; no coalition

Be it life or death, our ashes will always blow in the same direction


 

[ This piece is the conclusion to Brimful of Grim, Part 1. ]

 


 

A.G. Diedericks is the groundskeeper of Morality Park, where he lures in lost souls. ]

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.]

 

‘Nevertheless, She Persisted’: A Shield Maiden Collaboration

1Wise-Woman

Her words, her will, her worth
Trampled and trodden
Forgotten
But for her
Flickering light
Fueled by ferocity
Molded with might
Courage compiled
Resilience reconciled
Wolves wryly grin
Circling again
Nevertheless, she persisted

 

Christine Ray

She was told little girls
should be seen, not heard
but silence was suffocating
truth twisted in her stomach
razor sharp
when her voice finally rose
from a whisper
to a roar
they tried to drown her out
their indignation a cacophony
Nevertheless, she persisted

 

Aurora Phoenix

her initial protestations
propelled by burning bile
bubbling pique
in a voice squeaky
with disuse
were dubbed whining
she scrubbed corrosion
from rusted tongue
flexed, strengthening
articulate exclamation
strident
castrating
they proclaimed her
nevertheless, she persisted

 

Kindra M. Austin

Disregard your heart, they said
Faith is for the fools
Chasing gold; bold are the weak
Dream seekers
Dreams don’t raise children
Nevertheless, she persisted

 

Sarah Doughty

Silence was her solace,
the stillness of the night,
the calm before the storm.
Her voice, long since stifled.
Her body, long since defiled.
But they never broke her spirit.
Nevertheless, she persisted.


 

[‘Shield Maiden‘ is the name adopted by these wonderful women, who are also members of Blood Into Ink Click their names for more information on the individual writers.]

‘Shoo, fly.’ – Collaboration – Kindra M. Austin & Samantha Lucero

Fly guy—bar fly with Roman nose and sake soaked tongue buzzing in my ear; shoo fly, don’t bother me.

 

like a sip instead of a gulp,

the spider is on the cliff of my knee,

it spreads no further with

its unshaven jowls scratching the walls

of my mind; i remember camel turkish royals,

hard pack, you thanking me after i sucked

your dick,  

begging me to stay when i said goodbye.

men just want a woman in their bed, any one will do.

and i like pooling alone, like a puddle of rain outside,

dreaming my chaotic dreams.

 

You’d followed me out to the parking lot

after my Karaoke set; ‘Rolling on the River’ was my best yet.

I let you feel me up, under the bra, under lights catching bugs,

while my hands worked overtime, pulling down your drawers.

 

and what wet dreams may come on the upper lip,

against graffiti on a basement wall

or into a fireplace or all over my young,

stupid skin – in cupid’s bow – where you

press a finger, and say shhh.

like a benediction in the dark.

the broken arrow, the watery eyes

and lies i combed through my hair.

i keep them like an amulet.

i loved those lies.

 

Men are feeble characters in constant

requirement of a woman’s sustenance,

but too damned proud to kiss the ring

and swear fealty.

So they advertise their cocks, their prowess in bed,

and make us believe we need them.

You’d followed me out to the parking lot,

and told me I was pretty.

 

that dark matter hisses between us like static

in the stomach of a black hole, invisible as your

love, boiling on my brow, california as my religion.

the world going bang inside my ribs. 

my hands still empty from what you stole,

and when i stare at them i wonder how i

ever loved before, how i hadn’t noticed

that love’s dead. it fell off the tree, popped like

an ornament on the floor.

it drown inside distilled water with baudelaire on a sugar cube,

trickling over a latticed spoon into a neon throat.

 

I’ve wept into my wine, oh!

Red, red, bittersweet, the taste of your tongue

clinging to my buds, and the fusty scent left to

stain my nipples that you sucked raw, like an

infant clinging to life—I’d wanted to swaddle you

in the fine fibers of my being. But you are not a babe;

you are a man-child with a predisposition,

and I am a grown ass woman worth more than you have to offer.


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.]

 

&&&

Samantha Lucero likes… uhhh… cats, and can never think of what to say about herself, she writes at sixredseeds, sometimes.]

Nom De Guerre – Collaboration of A. G. Diedericks & Aurora Phoenix

 

in art
I come alive
when I put my pen down
it’s all uncharted territory
obfuscated scriptures
obstruct my script
with indecisions
and honed inhibitions
I vomit
unintelligible words
ineligible to decipher
paraplegic
cryptic
paralysis in my analysis
a jargon
too far gone
from consciousness
I thrive
in poetic nooks
inhaling the sustenance
of literary lore
I shrivel
when my fingers
relinquish their perch
click-clack pecking the keys
I lose my footing
skid and wander
meandering Neanderthal
grunting monosyllabic
monotonous monotone
bungled from gnarled
arthritic fingertips
aching hips
collide coccyx
cogitating
insensate sensibilities
incongruous
in a house of congress
homo sapiens
barred from sapience
I am a refugee
seeking refuge
in the allure
of a nom de guerre


 

A.G. Diedericks is a cinephile in the midst of being gentrified into a bibliophile.. Colonized by mediocrity; He moonlights as a clandestine writer. You’ll find him in a dark alley over at the cuckoo’s nest; where he often lays to rest in Cape Town, SA. ]

&&&

[Aurora Phoenix: I spent over 2 decades as a clinical psychologist, prior to the decimation of my world when I was suddenly incarcerated 2 and a half years ago. My writing was born in that caged existence – not a choice but a soul-saving necessity.  I write as Aurora Phoenix at Insights from “Inside”]

‘A BRIMFUL OF GRIM’ – Collaborative – A.G. Diedericks & Kindra M. Austin

I walk the streets, brimful of grim

a former empath, deformed

with a Stephen Hawking-sized

black hole in my chest

 

At night I chisel the cemetery of us

blurred visions leave my veins with an incision

I siphon the blood back into our old skeletons

reprieve my solitude

 

The moon is a phantasm—

a projection of you

Your cold white face casts shadows

of me against these cobblestone streets

and up the sides of Tudor buildings—

I am a colossus,

brimful of grim   

 

In an L.A. riot, I lie quiet

under a monochrome sun,

and listen to the unison of us—the way we were, uncanny

The earth vibrates underneath me; defibrillator, ascertain my heartbeat

 

Ever since you left, every woman I meet plays her part in a ménage

á trois with your mirage

Cosplay lovers;

I think you would love the homage

 

The sun’s beams envelope me,

a yellow shroud melting

Saturate my winter soul—

memories of you coagulate

in my arteries, thick cholesterol

You are my heart disease

I crave the taste   

 

Insatiable, the revenant of you

I climb into your climate

A masochist, unable to resist—tie me up, let me hang,

suspended in the mist of you


 

A.G. Diedericks is a cinephile in the midst of being gentrified into a bibliophile.. Colonized by mediocrity; He moonlights as a clandestine writer. You’ll find him in a dark alley over at the cuckoo’s nest; where he often lays to rest in Cape Town, SA. ]

&&&

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.]

‘Recombinant Selves’ – A Collaborative of 11 writers

We inherit

The wordless cry

Of all our former

Selves (CER)

 

They layer themselves

upon us

ragged cloaks

of the homeless

dragging

at our heels (AP)

 

Dusk takes one last breath

Swallowing golden specks of us

Scattered among the detritus

No light reflects

From such depths

We are the chosen (1W-W)

 

We stumble against starless darkness

searching for one truth (KMA)

 

Layer by layer, I am revealed.

The reflection looking back at me

isn’t one I recognize.

Will there be anything

worth remembering,

when I’m gone? (SD)

 

Fragmented remnants

permeate our evolution

ill-fated to dissonance

a dichotomy of our

recombinant selves (AGD)

 

Searching for a candle in the abyss,

A hope to hold onto,

To chalk sweaty palms

Gripping a frayed rope.

tearing tender flesh,

Climbing toward salvation (JWL)

 

But the stars have fallen, smashed diamonds

of our shattered images, and the lost cry

who am I? In tune with our hearts.(A)

 

Through telescopes

we focus on a point

All else is irrelevant

From the bottom of a well

our vision is limited

All else is a mystery (WC)

 

The mysterious property

of my ancestors

the progeny of dusk

I am prodigy or effigy

What I ought to be

or another misstep in

my fragile history (OP)

 

Our former

Selves

Cry:

Look

Their

inheritance! (SFF)


 

Writers:

1Wise-Woman

A.G. Diedericks

Allie

Kindra M. Austin

Ward Clever

Sarah Doughty

Stephen F. Fuller

John W. Leys

Aurora Phoenix

Olde Punk

Christine E. Ray