Guest Writer: Occultosophia “Self-Scorn and Loathing”

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[Photo: Maud Gonne]

‘Rise, rise’ they shouted – ‘In the worldly affairs,
least you wish to perish in the abyss, dragon-braved one’
My meanings forged out of iron, died one after another
Smashed mine enemies one by one
My purpose coined with great intent, died one after another
Dug my enemies trenches under my walls
My dreams and visions belittled the envious scourge
Cuth the roses my enemies and mixed it with dung
My life a torturous wheel, holding guard of a diseased mind
Every day for a new illness, of mind, heart and soul
Now that I emerged from wars and battles of years’ countless toils
A spit on the pathetic without pity, desiring none
Both the enemies and windmills mock me, they disappeared.
As I withdrew with scorn from the life-disease
No one is to believe how I passed the citadels of hells
Armed enemies shattered my pride and dragon-spine
Princes of hell and corpse-juices of witches poisoned me
Black Brotherhoods brought terror and contaminated
What was the remnant of a cadaver’s love
If belief would be of any worth to me,
I would say: ‘Believe it or not, my epitaph is not for thee’
A dead man gazing with a triumphant smile.
A kill that hunted for years now after it has won
Simply wants to forget and hang, a rope, a tree
And a whisper: ‘May Gods take me back, I hated all
may this life be-gone!’
‘May those yelling ‘rise’ be cursed, along with
vermin obstructing the call’
What a jesterly demeanour: To promote and to destroy
A mortal shelled coil that without fire and scales
Is half-way a crippled ape with a pretense of a Deity

Yet until this life lasts

With wrath, scorn and loathing, disarmed vampyric corpse and a weakling’s mind (good enough for Tyrants, but not for me!) I need to find my inner tranquility.

Bio
Website

Introducing New SD Writer: Abigail J. Brown “Ancient Tales”

Waterhouse, John William, 1849-1917; A Mermaid

[Artwork: John William Waterhouse]

Ancient Tales

Alluring red hair,

Said to be stained

With the blood of 10’000 men.

My bare breast

Drenched in pearls and shells.

Glistening, clean skin

Only to temp them more.

The curves of their wives on land,

And the tail of a goddess.

Scales blinding

In the warm golden sun.

A song is sung as they sail near,

To calm the waves

And draw them here.

To catch me

Before I pull them in

Would only mean immortality.

As they come closer,

With one touch of my pruned fingers,

On their soft cheeks.

They attempt to steal a kiss,

Sinking my nails deep.

Pulling them over

Temptress of the sea.

[Abigail Brown is a lover of creative ways of to express the “self.” She seeks to find ways to tell a story and eliciting feeling through her work. She is a a mother by day and a poet by night. She is a member of the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective.]

Guest Writer: Chrissie Morris Brady “Cliches”

anna may wong 1932 - by otto dyer

anna may wong 1932 – by otto dyer. Scanned by Frederic. Reworked by Nick & jane for Dr. Macro’s High Quality Movie Scans website: http://www.doctormacro.com. Enjoy!

Cliches

They Say What Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Stronger

Isn’t gaining character a process?

A cancer diagnosis will flaw you

Your daughter who doesn’t visit breaks your heart

Having an authority break the law against you

makes you vulnerable

Ears that won’t hear you defeat you

Impunity can torture you to death

Despots ignore human rights

Your voice ignored breaks your spirit

Hope deferred makes the heart sick

Pining for love will break your heart

A confidence betrayed destroys trust

Rejection wounds the soul

No boundaries make you insecure

Solitary confinement can make you insane

Terrifying experiences give you flashbacks

No affection makes you anybody’s

Rape will twist you inside and haunt you

To grow stronger we need time and space

Being listened to and accepted

Sometimes many of these things come to one person

Inside they want to die, give up the ghost

They seem strong from the outside

But you cannot judge a book by it’s cover

Chrissie Morris Brady
Chrissie is much traveled and has lived and worked in several countries. She gained her degrees in psychology at USC and worked with recovering addicts in the LA area for four years. She now lives on the South Coast of England where she writes, having worked in more therapeutic roles. Chrissie has been published by Ariel Chart, Bournemouth Borough Council, Plum Tree Books, Mad Swirl, Anti Heroin Chic, Dead Snakes, and other publishers of poetry. Her articles appear in Novel Masters, Democracy Now! and other newspapers.

The Invention of Arson David Lohrey

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The Invention of Arson

Who started the fires? Many are drawn to the flames – men and women
in equal number. They clamber to get closer. They take off work to travel:
the flames climbing higher, engulfing, filling the skies. The smoke gets in
everything; there are ashes in the houses, on the carpets. Many stand still
and hold out their tongues. They tear off their clothing. They crave the heat. They’re excited by the smell of ruin. They’re delirious.

The fires mean trouble. The people can’t tell the difference
between fireworks and flames. They welcome the fires with tribal dances.
The women bare their breasts. It excites the men. The logs in the fireplace
have rolled into the living room but the people are too drunk to push them back. They’re laughing. They’re excited that something’s finally happening.
They’re so bored the thought of burning the house down makes them giddy.

The gals want their backsides smacked. The men get close
enough to the flames to singe their body hair. The women shriek.
The parents no longer watch the children. Many die running into the flames. The parents shrug. What’s the difference? The children carry fiery
logs about and throw them into the cars. They take hot sticks and poke
out each other’s eyes.

The parents don’t know what to do, but declare with a sense of urgency
there is nothing to be done. It’s all beyond them; it’s fate.
They move closer to the fires. They’ve burned all their clothes.
They have nothing on. They push the children away and commence
to fornicate in the ashes. The men relieve themselves on the hot coals.
Many children catch fire.

They move back to the caves when the fires burn down. They remove
the paintings from their frames to use the wood as kindling.
The museums are ransacked. Libraries are emptied. They desperately
raid the theatres for wood from the stage floors. In short order,
there’s nothing left. The fires die out. The men and women crouch
in their earthen holes and cry.

Some brave women venture out but quickly regret it.
Most hide themselves deep within. Much if not all is lost.
The fires burn out. When there was fire and music,
nudity seemed sexy, but now the women are cold.
They feel ugly like insects. The men don’t caress them;
they kick them. The sexes are not equal.

 

[David Lohrey is from Memphis, where he grew up, and now lives in Tokyo, where he teaches and writes for local travel magazines. He graduated from UC Berkeley and then moved to LA where he lived for over 20 years.
Internationally, his poetry can be found in Otoliths, Stony Thursday Anthology, Sentinel Quarterly, and Tuck Magazine. In the US, recent poems have appeared in Poetry Circle, FRiGG, Obsidian, and Apogee Journal. His fiction can be read in Crack the Spine, Dodging the Rain, and Literally Stories.
David’s The Other Is Oneself, a study of 20th-century literature, was published in 2016, while his first collection of poetry, Machiavelli’s Backyard, was released in September 2017. He is a member of the Sudden Denouement Collective.]

 

Guest Writer: Lea Lumi’ere “How many fingers are lost in bravery”

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How many fingers are lost in bravery
(in memorial of Lori Gilbert Kaye killed in the Poway Synagogue Shooting)

After the sermon, people navigated south
of the cherry oak synagogue, California sun
Blistering through the sky windows,
the rabbi sang the verse in a tempo
of an old trumpet in the back of a jazz club,
rusty, but on cue, full or air and emotion

one woman carried her prayer book to the hallway,
she was asking when it would be time for the
mourner’s prayers, said on the holiday,
“In five minutes,” she was answered

a blaze of fire shot out through the building,
the rabbi holds up his hands, blocking
the instigator, carrying the brunt of the bullet,
Losing fingers, then ushering out the children
while people run, run, run
To the south side of the synagogue,
Out the glass doors of the cherry oak building

the gun jams, the shooter is held down by a congregant,
then flees.
maybe the shooter was wearing a blue shirt,
the supposed color of peace, maybe he was all of 18,
barely having lived a quarter of a century—
enough about the shooter!
enough about the hate—

I see a brave rabbi, a man of guts and faith,
his shirt was white, the color of fresh sand
on a California coast, His eyes were blue,
open and embracing,
his fingers that remain—
they are red,
like the sound of life in a miracle.

Lea Lumi’ere is a visual artist and writer from New Jersey. She is the author of “Olive Rain” poetry collection. Her work has been published in Unvael Journal, and various other journals. You can find more of her poetry on Instagram @lealumiere.

Her book Olive Rain Collection is available through Amazon.

Guest Writer: Tofu “Errant Pleasures”

02-Clara-Bow
[photo: Clara Bow]
=Errant Pleasures

“I am lost.
labyrinthe in static motion,
kaleidoscope-violated prism,
glass veins and sticky lacerations
amphetamine-laced burrowing into skin
and I’ve forgotten your scent

the burrs lay flat against my hide
of which
I’ve long since ignored.
friction, my husk ignited,
and the pines burn in my flesh
in a spot I cannot reach
and you are distant
and they beat the fight out of me
and you are gone
and they left me to die.

I am lost.
light turned sour in smog air,
a paned window painted bloody,
small and afraid.
quiet, undulating, sickly pulsating
gruesomely sore,
dead, dead, dying.

I reached out,
why weren’t you there?”

“I am Tofu, a twenty-one year old poet. I reside in British Columbia, in a rural neighbourhood, surrounded by power lines and open fields. My work is influenced by trauma, uncomfortable sensations, and the people of my past, present, and future. I’ve trekked through periods of poverty, chaos, peace and growth, and weave my experiences into intimate and vulnerable poetry. I hope only to encourage thought and empathy from the people who read my work.”

I also have a personal Instagram at @tofulori.
Her writing can be found at Tofu.poetry.blog.
Instagram: @tofulori

Guest Writer: Bharti Bansal My Father is a Brave Man

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My father tells me that tongue is a paper
Which should be folded
For world now is a cruel place
The voices here are murdered much before they can be heard
I tell my father how
this world is a blind man
Stepping on the dead bodies of children and men who stood up
As their tongues became iron crutches
“Gurney” he corrects
He tells me how voices are crushed
By the men like Venus fly trap
Eating unless nothing is left but fear
Fear to speak out loud
Fear to shout before the mountains echo back with “shhhhhhh”
This world makes a rosary out of the beheaded souls
And chants the name of oppression
As some child is murdered and thrown in a river for taking birth on a land
Where stigma learnt to walk first, head on
I then tell my father how I have learnt to whisper
Whisper through the hidden metaphors
Making my words a guerrilla force
Fighting against those who never choose to read between the lines
How my words are peaceful protest
Against a world where a foetus is drained in a toilet
And a mother is murdered for giving birth to rebellion
My father is a brave man
Scared for the life of a daughter
When being daughter is a fearful statement
Ending with the probabilities of death demanding mercy like a lost exclamation mark
My father is a brave man
Fearing outrage in a blood
Which has always meant to be kept cool
Like the lavender room
Where hang the pictures of women
Who died for shouting out loud
When patriarchy groped them, put fingers inside their vaginas
To cure them from taking a stand otherwise called as “hysteria”
My father is a brave man
Except he fears this world for a dandelion child
Whom he has protected against the winds of change
Where the rivers are filled with blood and bodies lie dry on streets
“Keep sush because it’s better sometimes” he says
But what he means is
Paper can be folded seven times
So fold your tongue into smallest version
Before it can’t be folded no more
And then scream, wail, ululate
Because in the end
A voice unheard is guilty silence
Scratching the insides of its cheeks
Before blood oozes out
declaring war
And war kills the silent ones first
My father is a brave man
Except sometimes he tells his daughter to stand
And shout in a deaf crowd
But what he means is
“If they can’t hear, make them see”
So I pick up my pen and write…

[My name is Bharti Bansal. I am 21 year old Indian poet. I write on depression, self esteem, sadness. I have been published thrice in Indian anthologies. People can read more of my work on my Instagram.