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

Guest Writer: Kara D. Spain (Three Poems)

this_is_theDivaPiovra_original
 Home

Stifling summer~ people bored,
and fed up with truth telling;
time to move on to greener fields
or back to the comfort of home
where my talents be best put to use,
aside from the pain of music

Funny, music should bear love,
yet some of it stings to the marrow;
How can love and hate be bound as one?
Let poetry sing to me, cheers,
and bring laughter to a frown!
I’ll speak to myself in rhymes,
like morse code to a lonely mind
that seeks a tiny corner of the universe
to call home

Stifled

Gagged; violent
Lips, stitched closed by laws~
humans bound
A pill to soothe the thinking mind,
to block the pain of childhood
divine healing or just stuffed away
behind a blockade of stoic cries?
Nothing to feel..nothing to hide,
until the bomb of emotion explodes
into a thousand raining bullets upon society

Sliver of Night

It only takes a drop or two;
a dab of silver and gray
to highlight the sky,
and my mind is illuminated with poetic lines

A curtain, a blanket, No!
Only a sliver of night
and I am made fully alive
by the sounds of a howling moon

I pray for highlighted clouds
to make the rhymes aloud,
then lull me to sleep, the sleep
of midnight’s eternity

 

[Previously published poet, Kara D. Spain, now spends the majority of her time manning the ship of Harken Poetry Publication, dedicated to the Romantic style poets who just can’t seem to blend in with the modern scene. She enjoys writing about nature and the human condition.You can find her poetry on her blog Harken Poetry) and on Amazon under Kara D. Spain or her former pen name Dara Reidyr.]

Vicki Wilson : I envy them their herd”

Dolce-1
[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.]

Guest Writer: Colin James “THE CONTESTANTS…”

thunder-robots

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.

 

Henna Johansdotter “Nebula”

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In my world
the woman is deathless
stellar gazes
delayed by
a thousand light years
don’t forget
to feed your god
swallow your testimony
and
zip up your confidence
tuck in these words
safely underneath Adam’s rib:
no you’re not
in love with me anymore,
but I still am
and when the light
of this destruction
reaches you
we may have been dead
for a millennium

[Please follow Henna on Twitter @HjdPoetry. Her poetry can also be found at HjdPoetry.]

Henna Johansdotter, the goth girl next-door. Aspiring author. Monstrophile. Horror enthusiast. She writes to cope with mental illness and everyday experiences.

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.