Shinbone-Jimmi Campkin

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We’d swum upstream, arching through the reeds and the little currents swirling around the sharp rocks just below us, grazing our elbows and knees.  The river meandered under the watch of hills crumpled and confused like an unmade bed.  Nothing moved except the wind and the water; and two undernourished, hopelessly drunk, hopelessly pale little tadpoles in the dark green of a midnight dip.

She’d hotwired the car in a dark corner of the drive-thru.  Under the artificial glare of neon bulbs, we’d seen the young couple fingering each other damp before sucking away their respective juices and hitting the fries.  All she needed was a cigarette lighter and a hairclip and we had a car.  A good car.  A V6 apparently, whatever that means, with two belts of cheap vodka and an automatic transmission.  I didn’t mind.  It meant she could grip my cock and still keep one hand on the wheel.

The narrow lanes guided us.  I became convinced that she drove with telepathy, her delicate wrist flicking the wheel with minimal effort but maximum g-force.  No lights, because apparently that would draw attention to us, she spat the thing out of town and into the swaying countryside.  In town I felt anxious but with every passing mile and every fleeting farmhouse I realised that nature was calling us.  I knew that somehow, Everything Would Be Taken Care Of.  Any cop car that happened to chase us would end up in a swamp, or with a sudden puncture.  We weren’t evil and we weren’t out to kill.  Our goodness would see us through.

We left the road out of boredom and smashed through a fence in the gap between the posts.  After a lot of bouncing and protesting we ended up in a field of tall corn past the roof, everything hissing and slurping as though the car itself was peaking a weird acid high.  Leaving it behind, we lunged through this cathedral of corn stalks and plunged into the river.

*

We cuddle under the old railway bridge, naked and alone.  At night, her skin glistens like a thousand pairs of moonlit cats’ eyes.  She doesn’t shave anymore and I can grab full clumps of her leg and under her arms but I don’t care.  I want everything she has, and if there is more of her I want that too.

Under dead stars and rusting arches she rests in my arms and legs, reclined against my back pressed against a damp stone wall.  We talk about everything from hot dogs to Einstein.  She doesn’t believe in the theory of relativity, but she does believe in a formula for the perfect dog.  A bun the specific length of her hand, a quart of mustard, a quart of relish, and the merest fumes of mayo…Mid-conversation she presses two fingers into the forest of her bush and pisses out a stream of alcoholic nectar running between our legs.

I kiss the back of her head and tell her everything will be fine.  It’s my generic line.  I don’t know if she is unwell.  I don’t know if she needs everything to be fine.  She tweaks my nipples, pulls my hair and licks my chin.  Then a hair bobble frees her ponytail and she winds it three times around her wrist until her hand glows, veins protruding like the contours of an atlas, ready for a needle we don’t have.

I apologise and cuddle her tightly.  My cock grows and lifts, dragging itself against the small of her back.  Underneath the bridge, a midnight train rumbles and complains overhead sending dust onto our heads and a small colony of bats scrambling over the river.  I’m cold, filthy and pointless.  But she is in my arms…my arms…and there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.


 

Born in November 1983, I have been writing in some form or another for most of my life, but I began to take it seriously as a career around 2003/2004.  Since then I have produced a novel, a novella and a series of short stories some of which are loosely linked into an overarching anthology.

Most of my stories come under the wide umbrella of ‘general fiction’, but I have experimented with genre pieces.  My short stories tend to be bittersweet, nostalgic, sometimes melancholic and (on occasion) examine the darker side of human nature and obsessions.

I welcome you to my site Jimmi Campkin, and I hope you find something here to please you.  If not, below you’ll find a big picture of me to scream obscenities at.

Leaden Skies- Olde Punk/RamJet Poetry

leaden skies

Come

Come and lead

Me on

Past the sallow

With leaden eyes,

Leaden cheeks

And leaden mouths

Heaving leaden words

At our backs beneath

Leaden skies

Come, come and find me

Down in the gutter

With the elixir still heavy

On my ragged breath

Call me to the gathering

With your voice like

Tambourines, drowning

Out the drawing of midnight

And the ringing of bells, pulling

Me towards the grey spaces

Where the Ankou waits

My golem is coming closer

Dead eyes seeking to take mine

Come, come and guide me

To the places where your sun

Blinds the darkness I wear

My funeral shroud already in place

I clutch it selfishly, growling curses

I will resist you, as you know I must

For I dwell in the houses of sorrow

And she is a lustful creature, despair.

Still I pray for you when lucidity

Finds me.

To come

Come and lead me

Far away from here.

Image courtesy of Pinterest


Olde Punk is an editor of Sudden Denouement and the curator of Ramjet Poetry.  Hockey, food and punk rock junkie.  Total sci-fi/fantasy geek.  He writes, right?

By Her Implore- Max Meunier

even in this wintry wake

she whispers words untrue

 

still, i can see

far beyond the walls

 

where once i knew her

 

waging wars

within her arms

 

i could not walk away

 

beholden

to the fragile child

 

who wept

in shades of fury

 

these preambles never fade

from light

 

found in the aftermath

 

branded by the searing touch

of cruxes

 

born to bear

 

no more

do i hear my own voice

 

echoing

through time’s collapse

 

having been eclipsed

by her implore

 

Image courtesy of Pinterest


 

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

 

Sentence of Sentience – Max Meunier

max

 

Sentence of Sentience – Max Meunier

what have i
but quieted inquiries

hollowed
and echoed
through vales
of a sub-violet druse
of aversion

no tangible touch
to form valid expression

intentions adrift
amid merciless
miles of mutable morass

from which somnolous streams
softly spill
forth eclipses

in lapses
bereft of availing account

where whims slowly waft
beyond walled apparitions

fled from partition
to form in summation
a dormant despair
born of quiet desperation

awaiting conclusion
in sediments muring

a freedom reprieved
of sententious ideal

for what purpose plausible
peers within prisms

but spectacle
cradling consciences captious

enraptured in casting incessant goodbyes

alas
i digress
lest my thoughts
become i

[image credit: Wilhelm Kotarbinski]

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.

 

Commonality-Max Meunier/Dissociative Void

once we have

outlived

our bourn indignation

why must we trudge

through the crux

of man’s blunder

pandering wares 

of despondent disrepair

 

as figments

of desolate filaments

fading

 

once we have crossed

from the realm 

of idyll

into the abysmal

dominion of truth

who shall remain

to court these afflictions

but the ghastly cast-offs

from our reflection’s fallout

 

disrobed

and deboned

we drift

as detritus 

plagued with the pangs

of our own

rote requitement

 

not even the trope

of our soul’s transmutation

can stay the aggrievance 

that all shall sustain


[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.]

Max Meunier Poetry

 

 

In Your Absence – Max Meunier

how do i go on
now that this bitter husk
no longer bears your burden

now that shattered skies
no longer paint your visage white

left with naught
but false impressions
framed upon your pillow

and all the stars have fallen
from the absence of your eyes

Max Meunier (Max Meunier Poetry)

[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.]

Wolves – Christine Ray

Wolves – Christine Ray (Brave and Reckless Blog)

It had been many years

Since the wolves

Had come and

Circled the house

Howling at her door

Their voices insistent

Their teeth sharp

Their musk pungent

Their coats winter thick and matted

She was not surprised

At their return

It was, after all,

The Full Wolf Moon

 

She shivered in the house

Wrapping herself

In a worn blanket

Trying to block out

The mournful, insistent sound

Her heart beating fast

She never knew if they were

Demanding retribution

Come to tear out her throat

Or inviting her to shrug off the last

Vestiges of her humanity

And run wild with the pack

Naked through the snowy night

Christine Ray

[Christine was the winner of the Sudden Denouement Divergent Writing Contest. She is the creator of the Brave and Reckless Blog. I have gotten to know her over the past few months and can say she personifies the spirit of  Sudden Denouement. I am honored to have her among our ranks. Take a second to look at her bio and read more of her wonderful work.]

Brave and Reckless Blog

 

Next Door Neighbor – David Lohrey

la-dolce-vita

Next Door Neighbor – David Lohrey 

 

The man who moans

Moans because he lives alone.

His moans are not the same

As the couple upstairs.

Say no more.

 

He moans because he is still alive.

His moans are like sighs.

They communicate isolation. It’s

The human equivalent of an owl’s hoo.

Almost like boo hoo. But not quite.

 

The guy’s lonely.

 

When the young men are lonely,

They whistle.

The man who moans can’t whistle,

But he wants company.

He’s lonely.

 

When we hear moaning, we

Feel discomfort. Humans recognize

Despair. It’s in our genes.

It’s coming and we know it.

It’s basic.

 

In the meantime, we laugh.

Or whatever. You don’t hear

A lot of moaning from the young.

Nor from the young at heart.

It’s disturbing.

 

A whistle is a mating call.

The young man wants company.

He expresses appreciation, however

Awkwardly, however rudely. It’s

Base, but it’s sexy.

Women secretly love it.

Dying men don’t whistle.

 

The dying want company

But not sexual attention.

Sex is the furthest thing

From the mind of the man

Who moans. He’s alone.

 

The penis no longer works. It

Doesn’t even perform its

Primary function, which

Is pissing. Even that is an ordeal.

 

Hey, this is real.

 

The man moans for all that’s gone,

Including his once sharp mind.

 

The ease of pissing goes first,

Then the brain.

The combination is discouraging.

You can’t piss and you can’t remember where you laid your

glasses.

 

Some cry.

 

I never do. I moan.

[David is lost in Japan. He is a smart, kind man who writes amazing poetry. We are thrilled to have him writing for Sudden Denouement. He is one of us.]

David Lohrey was born on the Hudson River in New York but grew up in Memphis. He graduated from U.C., Berkeley. He earned his Ph.D. at Charles Sturt University, Wagga Wagga, NSW, Australia. He teaches in Tokyo. He has reviewed books for The Los Angeles Times and The Orange County Register, and served as drama critic in NYC and LA for Curtainup.com. His plays have appeared in the UK, Switzerland, India and, most recently, in Croatia. In a Newark Minute and Sperm Counts were translated and produced in Estonia (2016). His poetry can be found in The Rats Ass Review, Softblow, The Blue Mountain Review, Otoliths, Sentinel Literary Quarterly and Quarterday.  Recent fiction can be read in Crack the Spine and at inshadesmag.com. He is currently writing a memoir of his years living in Saudi Arabia on the Red Sea and on the Persian Gulf.

[Photo:  Federico Fellini’s La Dolce Vita]