The Fermi Paradox Revisited – Henna Sjöblom

strangers_in_the_night_by_marrrakesh

 

fermi1

I had a panic attack in the street once.
I couldn’t go home, so
I just sat on the ground, screaming,
my makeup smeared all over my face, my nose blazing red like Rudolph the Reindeer’s, and the sounds erupting from my mouth were not some modest sniffles or erotic sighs, but hideous, wet gargles as of a jellyfish being dropped into a juice blender.

fermi2

fermi3

No one would look at me.
Everyone passed by in a hurry, acting as if I was a spot on their retina, a threat to the orderly society. The madness that lures behind the corner as we sit crouched in silence, pondering the significance of emphatic connection

fermi4

Stuck on the wrong frequency
I adjust my vocal chords again
humming sweet nothings into the radio transmitter
A distress-call from a dying race

fermi5

Knowledge of our ultimate uselessness
has been a splinter dug into my backbone, ticking in dissonance with my pulse
fermi6
I reach my slashed wrists out to grab a corner of your coat
Please, sir! If you think I’m good, let me know now, I won’t last very long
supernovae burn too bright and fade too soon
bringing entire galaxies down with them

fermi7

I see you walk by as I peek out trough the window blinds,
(your greasy hair flapping against your neck
your cheeks fat with self-righteousness)
and after all of this,
all I can think is
who the fuck were you to me?
There’s no intergalactic rescue service
coming to our aid when we abandon our ideals and give up on adoration
how could we obtain the interest of an extraterrestrial life form
when we don’t even bother to try and understand each other?
to sate my cosmic homesickness
I turn to the faces of passers-by
but their distrait eyes only reflect what I already know

fermi8

 

 

[Murder Tramp Birthday, previously Malicia Frost, dropped the disguise and is now publishing under her real name on SD. 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.]

‘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.]

 

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

‘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. ]

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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.]

Introducing A.G. Diedericks – There’s No Dawn Where We Live

There’s no dawn where we live.

I watch as you step inside my soul,  scavenging for a candle holder,

accompanied by an indefatigable passion to touch this purely

decorative heart.

In my hands I caress your ethereal skin, freckled with my scars. On

your lips, I turn your truths into lies

I’m all that you should despise

Oh, my beautiful marionette

When will you realize?

Tell me when it gets cold, and I’ll lend you my straight-jacket,

whilst I put on another disguise.

 

There’s an equilibrium in madness.

In our tunnel; you had the vision

to descry the years of loyalty beyond the brutality. And time has

stolen everything except our problems.

 

You see, I have always been the architect of my own abyss.

Until you came along and furnished it into your own wishing well,

leaving me to rest & dwell, in this never-ending boundary spell.

Where my subconscious manifest monstrosities,

whispered

beneath a church bell.

 

I remember when we met, you told me that you’re just a figment of my

imagination. I didn’t know it at the time, that we had seen each other

before, somewhere in the trenches of an ominous metaphor.

 

The truth is I am a custodian of doubt, anchored by a lofty disregard

for change.

I don’t remember the walls being this shade of black. I don’t remember

why our ghost writer left and booked himself in for an exorcism.

 

There’s no dawn where we live

I watch as you self-flagellate, injecting yourself with Stockholm Syndrome

I watch your ambivalent tears burn with the aesthetic light of your

smile destitute of truth

And you know that i would let you go, if you would let me..

but you’ve always been more stubborn than me

even now, as you stand there..

laying your incorrigible flowers

on this free-fall bed.


[ 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. ]

Bellyful – Kindra M. Austin

Excuse my protrusion; I suffer intrusion

of demons mine, and yours forced between my teeth.

I masticate while you masturbate;

fun to watch me swallow, innit?

Pour a stiff drink,

something acetic

acid—

make my stomach into plastic

lined landfill, non-biodegradable.

I’ll die bloated with a bellyful of demons, 

immortal.

 


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.]

Still Life: Smear – Malicia Frost

The waiting room is full
the tapestry bleeding fungi,
framing the stain
where I pinned their lifeless bodies
a collection of easy-to-use, handicraft lovers
The steel door damp from their reluctant moans
Ideas when abandoned take on hideous forms
Glimmering girls
fly for one night only

Now, her legs are spread wide to receive salvation
Rib cage bent open like sharp mandibles
Intestines twined into useless arms
flapping up and down,
as if mocking the art of flight

You think it will not kill you too?
halo around your thorax won’t protect you
when my mind, with the hands of the drowning
clings on to anything and anyone
that crosses 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. More of her works can be found at her personal blog.]

It’s no comfort – Samantha Lucero

It’s no comfort knowing that you’re buried,
deep down, taking earth around you
like blankets that fall apart and crawl.

But seasons still disrobed like actors
backstage in a play, in front of
everyone. Even with you
gone, the world moved on.
And I watched. We all did.
Forced to watch, without you,
with seasons pouring the years
between us in vanishing old flannel,
smelling like Salem filter kings,
soft.

Spring grew through us both
like a blade.
And you died in the summer.

A diamond in that box
they buried you in, deep down,
where you fall apart and crawl, too,
by now. Still waiting to be proposed,
like the plan to go back to Santa Fe.

Sometimes I wait for you to show,
maybe at the movie I go to alone,
sitting next to me when I peek over
in the flickering dark.
You could come around a corner
on a walk, and
not even say hello.

When I die, leave my eyes wide open
let them see that I’m dead.
Then burn me,
take my ashes to the Burren
where the wind will tear me apart
and take me farther away.
And my daughters can’t go to my
grave and wonder
Is she alive down there?
Please be alive,
somewhere.

They can breathe me in
Or taste me instead.
when they lick their lips
after swimming in the sea.

And you’ll still be in that box,
waiting to go back to Santa Fe.

 


 

[Samantha Lucero does six red seeds.]

Critical Mass – Nathan McCool

There used to be a lake here but
it too is just drained now.  I may have once
been a ghost of water
able to enter and exit places without recognition,
able to touch a mouth and not leave a
taste or a mark – just
the sensation that something has been there
to calm a need.
Some days now I’m more just the spirit
of fire.
A ghost of smoke
A ghost of echoes
A ghost of ghosts
And I could truly be of the same amount
of use. My grass is overgrown.
Hasn’t been cut in weeks and I just
don’t give a damn. All my guitar strings are dead.
My Social Distortion vinyl skips on all my
favorite parts
because that’s where I’ve accidentally placed myself
again.
My fingers pressing in involuntary, pushed
by the weight of all I’ve done and failed to do.
I’m so full of everything. I’ve taken in so much
of what the world has to give, and I’ve
tried to take back so much of what life has
stolen. But sometimes I still can’t feel it.

There used to be a lake here but
it too is just drained now. I break in
in the middle of the night and step right
into its tomb.
This crater overflows with me
and I think maybe nothing and no one
will ever be able to hold all that I am now.

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.]

Guest Blogger: Sook Samsara, “Driving into the Sun”

Driving into the sun
Hands over my eyes like a child
Afraid of the future’s big face in mine
Playing games of peekaboo and scream
Natural causes working always incorrigibly behind the scenes
Bringing knees to concrete
Staining out the colour in my cheeks like mum’s washed jeans
Feeling the movement of the bitumen under me
Measuring time by how the white lines merge to one
Life recapitulates death
Recapitulates life
And again
There’s no such thing as time
Just the body falling back to dust
Eating itself alive
The best bits first and then hungrily the crust
Inner mechanisms causing scabs of ugly rust
In the destruction of husked cells
The days have gone quick
—I guess I binged on them too


 

[My name is Sook Samsara and I’m an icon of the universe. I reside in the year 2017 within the confines of the Australian continent. If anyone cares to find me they can look into the darkest part of their shadow, the part that’s cast in the middle of the night when you’re standing under the bathroom’s halogen after waking up from a dream of falling. You can talk to me there. I am a man and the hourglass has already been turned. I am aging without grace or respect. I have never managed to successfully escape the demon’s that rely on me like useless friends. I am worthy of love but have just temporarily forgotten why. I write poems and upload them to https://koalabeartea.wordpress.com When I’m not writing who am I? Just another scared boy.]