Baby, I’m So Cold – Kindra M. Austin

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You don’t know what love is at noon o’clock on
Tuesday, when I tell you I’m so cold that I can’t even
fucking feel it
anymore, expect for
inside—just inside the doorway where
my walls still quake with a singular mind
not mine, but theirs.

And you can’t tell the difference,
like my stupid cunt
can’t tell the
difference—the
goddamned
difference ‘tween
pleasure and affection.

Noon-thirty,
you gotta get home cos she is waiting cos
your home is her home,
too—
I got no type of home worth
mentioning.

I don’t know what love is at midnight o’clock on
Wednesday, when I answer your call—
I’m so fucking cold that I can’t feel it
anymore.


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.

Puncture-Kindra M. Austin & Jimmi Campkin

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I know damn well where the bastard’s been, but I ask him anyway, just for shits and giggles. He tells me to take a short walk off a long pier—idiot, stinking of another man’s piss and strawberry nudy-bar incense. He’d sat in his car getting blotto before going inside. I know because this particular club only serves soda. What a ridiculous image: a carpark full of man-children rubbing premature hard-ons while sucking down whiskey or beer, and snorting snow off of steering wheels. I wonder how many make eye contact with their fellows as they walk across the pavement, and enter Titty McGee’s.

Hate is a strong word, and only suitable for a wretched fool.  Earlier that evening, whilst going through a drawer, I blew the dust and little balls of melted cotton from my thigh-highs and looked at them through the diseased light of a yellow lamp.  They hung from my fingertips like dead skin, stripped from some worthless cadaver fucked into permanent oblivion.  I dream of shackling his wrists and ankles spread-eagle and slowly inching the only sharp stiletto heel I have left towards an eye until the lid closes; wherein I push the tip against skin until it punctures and he begins to tremble.  My daydreams now invade my night, and I welcome the embrace from anything that purports to care enough.

I sit down, light up a smoke, and make sure the robe slips enough to see the gap between the stocking and skin. I can see him staring ahead at some shit game show re-run with the grim determination of someone not wanting to look at a road accident, or the second honeymoon video of the ex-wife. He doesn’t want it, and I regard him with all the disdain of a soiled mattress; but it’s nice to tread on his already flimsy principles. I like to remind him that the only pussy that intimidates him is the pussy that stays dry and grates like sandpaper. My cunt was silken once, back when I was a dancer he coveted. Now, the TV glows as he slumps in front of the screen, images passing over him like Teflon—nothing sticking, nothing absorbing.

I’m onto my third cigarette, and my mouth is full of cotton. He finally switches everything off and goes into the bedroom. Like a shy virgin, he mumbles a goodbye and looks at me from over his nose. Following him, I peel off the stockings and throw them into the corner of the room as he begins to undress, embarrassed by a body shaped like dead clay. Snapping my disposable lighter in half, I pour the contents over the rumpled nylon, and throw the glowing end of my cigarette into the mess. It ignites instantly; he jack-knifes over to put it out, stomping and pounding on the melting garments. It gives me pleasure, the confused fear dripping from a pair of black orbs and into his mouth.

When he asks me in desperation why did you do that? I can only give him an honest answer.

Exactly I say, looking into his empty eyes. Exactly.

 

© Kindra M. Austin/Jimmi Campkin

Original image courtesy of Jimmi Campkin 


 Kindra M. Austin is an indie author (her books can be found here, a founding member of Indie Blu(e), and a writer/managing editor at Sudden Denouement, Blood Into Ink, and Whisper and the Roar. A Sagittarius Valkyrie from the state of Michigan, she likes craft beer, and classic big block muscle cars. You can find her filing through the souls of the slain at poems and paragraphs.

Jimmi Campkin is a “Writer, photographer, creator of SANCTUARY. 16bit child, INFP with clinical nostalgia and red wine for blood.” You can enjoy more of his work at jimmi campkin.com.   

Requiem in Red- Aurora Phoenix

 

she etched an elegy

 

for herself

 

in her arm.

 

\it was not that she wished she were dead,

 

it was that in her heart, she already was\

 

with each draw of the blade

 

she eased mournful notes

 

skillful as a virtuoso violinist

 

from her love-starved skin.

 

this one, scratched doleful in minor D

 

laments a childhood forlorn

 

lost in the tumbleweeds

 

of mother’s hypodermic windstorm.

 

tentative lacerations mimic

 

the rent fabric of comfort

 

in which she was never swaddled.

 

that one, carved in hesitant desperation

 

released a cacophony of hushed howls

 

an orchestra of screeching duduks

 

protesting the predators’ parade

 

that prowled unguarded through her dreams

 

         day and night. –

 

cuts, breaking your heart if not

 

her parched and thirsting skin

 

berate the moon and sun

 

who sheltered her not, while each

 

beseeches the silent heavens

 

“was I not worthy of protection?”

 

 

 

she proffers her arm, bared

 

         as her anguish –

 

this belligerently fragile woman – child

 

as eloquent a threnody

 

as Bacon ever painted

 

\triptych over tendons\

 

her practiced insouciance

 

imploring you to care.

 

 

 

yes, assert your eyes

 

weary of caustic consternation

 

I will listen to your tales

 

\of hades and his dethroning\

 

 

 

you sketch her a thesaurus

 

lilting bagpipe harmony

 

reveille!  immutability

 


Aurora Phoenix is a wordsmithing oxymoron. Staid suburbanite cloaks a badass warrior wielding weapon grade phrases. Read more of her confabulations at Insights from “Inside.”

BECAUSE I’M A WHORE WHO ASKED FOR IT – Kindra M. Austin

I quite like the dark side, dear.

Show me your shadows, those

Phallic phalanges, and

Feel up my female.

 

I quite like the fusty spoors of

Spirits, and semen, and plundered

Blood

Fixed to my skin.

 

I quite like the emptiness settled in the pit of me—

The sharp taste on my tongue as I lick the edge of abyss.

 

Because I’m a whore who asked for it, simply by breathing.

 


 

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. ]

Kindra M. Austin has just published a poetry book.
Click HERE for more information!