Island Thoughts and Ship Songs – Nathan McCool

Call me down from the star splattered sky
of another opiate morning,
from bad dreams of your sails burning and
my body of wind passing through
uncatchable.

My limbs still shake from faltering flight
and the total absence of rapture’s acceptance. But fear,
I think it only finds home in the idea that you may
one day long for me only to feel my
fingers as morphine injections;
taste my breath as methadone.

So what if all I want is to walk the sea shore with the
solitary rose I harvested from your mouth,
collecting bowl shaped shells for holding
that nonexistent kiss;
your lips – a wreath of phantom accelerants.

I’m sinking way down to gather enough salt
from this ocean
to blanket pictures of old wounds.
An arm still reaching wide to hold hope,
a neck still turning to see our ideals of goodness.

You can have my wounds and salt, my dear. My
small amount of goodness that looks like
a corpse filling picnic baskets with
flashing images and blinding murmurations
of color.
I’m still an uninhabitable island in moon’s long
light. What else can I say, baby?
“Come sail your ships around me.”


[Nathan McCool is the dark lord over on Instagram at God Of Dregs.]

the heart asks pleasure – samantha lucero

when you become a parent,
you become less 

a p p a r e n t.

until i disappear completely,
i can weep into the liquid face of a mirror
and speculate about who used to dwell in
my iron & carbon skull, before i was
the me that faded.

i held onto me like a movie ticket
in the back of my wallet
the one we all keep
that just becomes a tomb
like a placeholder in our hearts
for a special day we end up
forgetting.

i’m perfunctory now, roiling,
knocked up by rainstorms
and lightning writhing down like a noose
on his red beard, drinking snake oil

maybe the world’s a cat’s eye and i am shattered faith
my shoulders a hewn epitaph of hopes
am i lucid dreaming, i never fell asleep.
these days, i lie down in a trance
and never wake up.


[ Samantha Lucero is the phantom haunting six red seeds. ]

Nobody Screams – SRP

sick of all of the apologies

i can’t read anymore

of the rhetoric

cause it started to make me sick

guess I’m just another lunatic

start to smoke 

but then i quit

started posing

now I’m bored

I’m too old to give a shit

pretend not to notice

and have a fit

another spineless hypocrite

i don’t know if anyone listens

maybe nobody even listens

i don’t mind if anyone cares

i don’t believe in all the lameness

unsubscribe to all

the bullshit

clean up my act

&learn how to 

smile

just another handshake scene

i get lost in the dream

wish it was mostly make believe

stabbed in the back

nobody screams


[SRP is a co-creator of Sudden Denouement and driving force in the collective. He is a musician, a writer, and a friend.]

Deaf – Howl Davies

I came back for the silence,
for the roots that were reclaimed
after being torn out the earth
a dozen times, it’s a lonely place,
but that’s all I really look for,
the slack jaw greeting of the mute,
the sense of nothing to hide
like a glass house filled with ghosts,
the kind that don’t frighten me,
there’s a tone deaf dial tone
humming next to my first marital bed
from the last time I was here,
and I keep it close,
for now,
blind to the haram
of undisclosed queries,
away from those constantly
trying to know one another,
but no one knows anyone,
ever,
that’s just life.
I’m better here,
in this oasis I’ve built
for myself, with the shrine
on my fathers deathbed
which I still don’t touch,
I’m breaking the silence
with a kick at the door,
or the drop of a glass,
just to ensure I haven’t gone deaf.

 


[Howl Davies is the ringleader at The Sounds Inside.]

Transcending-Max Meunier/Dissociative Void

we dream

to die

in this ring

of death

breathing in

our own entropy

like drunken druids

sinking past

the florid infirm

as floor

turns to fig leaf

and celestite settles

no more

shall we fret


Max states: “I write about the things going on in my life. I am a feminist, humanist, cat loving musician bound by whimsy and the incessant analysis of hyper-vigilant observations.  I am obsessed with words and rhythmically woven wordplay.” We are honored to have him as a member of our tribe.  He writes at Max Meunier Dissocative Void

Turned Out-pbbr

Imagine the blow to my fragile ego the day that I found out; that just because I’m paranoid meant nothing more than that.

I was paranoid.

The lights that flashed around the bend were only there to guide me; not run me in the ditch. The shellshock helmet on my head squeezed tighter than any itch.

I was stymied by a world that never had it out for me in the first place.

Turned out my misfortune was all my own creation. Turned out my enemy was the reflection in the jailhouse mirror.

All the insights I thought would free me, were chains that held me there. And all the things that I thought would hurt me blew as wisps of air.

Perhaps too much time in dark corners made me comfortable with blindness. Perhaps the lack of sun was the reason behind my sickness. Because it turned out there were no aliens or government corruption. Turned out the only one spying on me was the most subjective one of all.

But he had the most valuable insight! you might say. And that might be a lie.

Not to say that the end of days isn’t slowly creeping nigh; this world can sustain only so much pain before she decides to die.

But imagine the load of carrying it on your shoulders. The weight of the future of all mankind because your rigid fingers slipped inside some slippery scorching panties. Because God didn’t whisper in your ear at night. Fundamental religions aren’t always about brimstone and handling snakes. They will teach you fear and they will teach you piety, no doubt. But they will also stack the stones high on your back.

Until your spine must crack.

Chemicals are there, too, a steady stream of hallucination; piebald irises and quivering fingers that seek cessation. How could I have expected to see any sky when clouds were my favorite shape? And violent answers to no questions asked, those were the kneejerk reaction. Yes, I know misfortune was a jailhouse I created myself.

I was paranoid.

There were no family conspiracies, no diabolical plots. Only reactions to loud noises. Self-defense mechanisms from those with the same blood in their veins. I can hear their whispers, he’s at it again, he’s at it again… is that a shovel he’s picking up?

Who wouldn’t talk behind your back when they can’t talk to your face? Where do you expect them to talk?

Turned out the only director of the play was chaos. And he wore a mask named Friend.

Crawling out of a dusky maze and free of perpetual haze; the chains that always bound me are clanking behind in pain. They miss the warmth of flesh; they miss the cries of disdain. But the further I move away as a slug in a trail of salt; I can see and feel warm light ahead and universal gestalt. I know the sum of the whole is greater than its parts.

To walk this path and come out unscathed would be the greatest sin. To look into the sun and be blinded, immersion in its pure beauty, is worth the price of admission. And what did I pay anyway?

I know that my misfortune was no one else’s fault.

I was paranoid.

But it turned out not to be a bad thing.


Based in the piney woods of East Texas, pbbr is a founding member of the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective. He is a technical writer by trade and the author of “The Scale of Savages” under the pen name Patrick Brendhan, available on Amazon.

Teratophilia

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Drawing (c) Malicia Frost // Henna Sjöblom

 

I never wanted your understanding
All I need is a mouth
someone who roars louder than me
someone who grabs first and asks not
whether I’m enjoying it
to block out
my own desires
I have chosen to love the monster
I did not ask for it,
still
I think I’m quite comfortable in here

Being bitten is painful and familiar
I collect his teeth as trophies
like soldiers stacking bullets around their necks
like we used to compare our scars
in middle school
“I think he’s getting more violent,” you whispered
and shivered in terror and ecstasy
over the thought of getting torn apart
at the dinner table that night

Now,
my skin has become a topographic map of wars
that were never recorded in history
My anxious fingers wander up to his jawline
and starts deciphering
where the next impact will strike
so that I might pull my shirt up
make sure it hits the spot
to make me see stars, nebulae bruises
flashing before my eyelids
And it doesn’t matter that he is all teeth
and no bones
I always found it easier
to love the wound
rather than the person inflicting it

 

[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. The drawing is from her sketchbook, a place she likes to illustrate her thoughts. More of her works can be found at her personal blog.]