The soothing sounds of the waters of her womb and the sight of fresh snow to ease the dull pain of a hangover not unlike so many that have gone before. Stovington blues and a horseshoe nebula just below her bellybutton. Below. The great below. Like the guy from King Crimson, Adrian Belew, and those fingers of his that work a guitar as if it were a wet clit upon a bed of leaves slipping down the stream of life. Leprosy and the stagnant waters of a womb that’s seen plenty of action but never known true love. Tennis balls down fallopian tubes and the steps it takes to walk to the moon and the feel of a searching tongue gliding around my crown until it’s time to taste a strange wonder. Strawberry kisses and the blah blah blah of a poorly heart caught between the thumb and forefinger of an ex-lover who’d be better off dead. A witch in a bathtub and scratchy pubic hair that gives me a rash and this neck is yours and what’s yours is mine and this wine is here and I am there and the lights of elsewhere shine bright for a while before drifting as they so often do. Damp hair and painted toenails and stretchmarks that speak to me of birthmarks and the shame of a woman who doesn’t want to be a woman because men are like the gunk between sweaty toes and yellowed nails broken from attempting to dance the dance of life but failing miserably. Maybe another glass of the good stuff followed by sketches of bruises between milky legs and the tears that cling to a slight chin before dripping down to the nip nips and the right buttock or maybe the left I can’t remember and I don’t quite care. Lake. As in Greg Lake, the guy from King Crimson who sings Moonchild to me in my dreams. More womb. Free drinks at the bar before these bony fingers of mine slide all the way in. Bourbon in the glass. Some reflections. Mostly old. Many faded. Leaves. Cobwebs. Deadlights. Inner fears and redemption that never comes. A pack of matches to light a fire between us. A road that comes and a road that goes, this way and that, from beginning to end, always, and forever. Yours sincerely, some kinda illusionary.
S.K. Nicholas is the creator of Myredabyss.com, as well as author of three collections of prose: A Journal for Damned Lovers Volumes 1, 2, & 3 (available on Amazon.) Additionally, Nicholas is a member of the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective.
Amazing Grace! How deaf—
wet wool wrapped ‘round
I’ve been saved, but not by you.
Jesus is just alright—
won’t sleep over,
he complains of bellyaches and
flies home early.
Maybe my snacks are too bitter tasting.
I’ve given up sweet wine.
My blessings are colored black and blue;
they come with the taste of dirt,
and the blood of gnashing teeth.
My blessings sing like a choir of wolves—
alive inside my rib cage,
I’ve saved myself.
Kindra M. Austin is a very sweary indie author and editor from mid-Michigan (you can find her books here). She’s also the co-founder of Blank Paper Press, a founding member of Indie Blu(e) Publishing, founder of publishing imprint, One for Sorrow, and a writer/managing editor at Blood into Ink, and Whisper and the Roar. Austin cut her poetry teeth in April, 2016, and joined the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective in 2017. You can find more of her foul mouth at poems and paragraphs.
These lazy afternoons are made of bones and tiny pieces of your nose and the image of your outie belly button laced with sugar and a length of string lassoed around a tooth or it could be the moon. Depends whether we’re on talking terms or not. Gonna have a beer and shave my pubes and then place them in an envelope and send them to you sealed with a kiss plus a photograph of me as a kid back when my hair was more ginger and I was a hyperactive dick, as opposed to now when I’m just old and strange. I’ve got sunburn and I’m all out of rolling tobacco and my teeth hurt and there hasn’t been a terrorist attack in months and I’m worried that when I next take the train I’ll be caught up in one and end up as some body outlined by chalk available to view on the internet in just a click so I’m walking through this field and it’s so hot and I see flesh and birth and wombs and honey and the sea and the sea it calls to me and even though I don’t know what to say I’m sure there’s a response in me just waiting to get out so on Monday Wednesday and Friday I do these squats and pretend I’m fucking a supermodel I wanna be just like Bundy wanna be wrapped up in infamy but boredom will no doubt get the better of me and the sweet taste of whiskey is enough to render anyone dumb, especially me. Might grow my hair and blow my brains out but not before I do the dusting and drink a cup of tea while doing my best to fall off the edge because sometimes falling off the edge is just so sweet so maybe come round and fall with me. Should put this in a letter but I’m too tired. I used to be such a romantic, or at least I think I did. Now I’m just bored with everything but there are times when a little light comes through. Not often it must be said, but now and again it happens, and life feels better for it, specially when I write about your smile and how it flares in my mind like an explosion in the sky, like that of a falling satellite, or an angel kicked out of heaven for its love of mirrors and André Previn.
S.K. Nicholas is the creator of Myredabyss.com, as well as author of two novels A Journal for Damned Lovers Vol 1 & 2. Both of these books are availableon Amazon. Additionally, Nicholas is a member of the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective.
A tangent across day. A tooth, a pointed tooth. Setting against the creased loaf of olive skies. A finger slips into the thread of dusk and reaffirms its own existence. A moment escapes and the tender pockets of clouds roam in the mouth. Rudiments and ash. Nothing is quite as spectacular, as beautiful as that which has ceased to exist. That which roams neither in memory nor along the eye but traverses into the unknown, the uncertain joy that sweetens the corners of the dreaming mouth.
An unnamable leaf twirling, the continuous passage of time across bones, across flesh, across eye. A day conveniently forgotten, carelessly strewn, a day, now nowhere to be found, neither desired not abandoned, a day curling around the round ear, the listless flute of being.
In a rain soaked field
where waters meet earth,
meet the hand of man
a ‘Golden Flower’ holds court
and asks only, for my observance.
I bow my head to it
and the mists immemorial
taking that prospect,
of rains falling
from the heart of the land.
Away, with the Fluss to the Father who surely carries
my wish to the sea,
to far foreshore
and just a little yonder portal.
Not much toil stirs the Sabbath,
save appealing bells,
saving some souls, they toll Sun Day.
Pray. we may touch unity, some day,
with our own atypical resonances.
“I guess you might describe me as a semi-nomad, at the moment . . . and in the moment, I might change. I am transitioning into a creative life, blogging, photography and, significantly, the publication of my first two photographically illustrated poetry anthologies, this year.”
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