Excerpt from Anthology Volume I: Writings from the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective- A letter to someone’s saviour/Oldepunk

aletterto
Hey you.  Allah

I feel nothing anymore

If I do, I can’t tell

is it supposed to be this way?

Hey you.  God, why am I

screaming at the fact that you’re aware of my failure which I see sitting demure at a table sipping espresso as the aftermath of the encounter thickens the air and afterwards no one knows what to say and I want to sneer at our confusion but find I can only shout fears in tongues at the matador in front of the corner store

can you spare a holy smoke?

You know the man who said he knew you tried to teach us

he liked to play with the little boys in the parks after dark

my parents decided that he probably didn’t know you but must have had some good lawyers cause he packed up his show and moved on to the next town

anticipating sundown.

I need a cleansing

I wrote this for you.

Christ,

I thought I left ’em all behind

those friends I never knew

and the women I never loved

the things I’ve never done

and the truths I’ve never spoken

those tears should have dried

those emotions should have died

Buddha,

I should have left when I had the chance

and now I am alone and stoned and cold

no longer so bold, I wish I would have walked away

from those lies I’ve never told

pain I never endured

People I’ve never needed

friends I never saw die

the escape route always eluded me

draining my will to try

Do you offer a resurrection

for those of us who got it wrong

will you truly offer me a chance to start again

or was it bullshit all along.

if it’s really a redemption song

then maybe I too could sing

and see what  your new tomorrow

may bring

maybe, If I can be strong

it has got to better than this

Warmest Regards,

I was Wrong

Anthology Volume I: Writings from the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective is available at Amazon.com, Amazon Europe, Amazon Canada, Book Depository, and other major book retailers.


You can read more of Oldepunk’s poetry at RamJet Poetry

A Tranquilness- Max Meunier

A Tranquilness- Max Meunier

where scarlet roads seeped into sentience

below the escarpment of ire

a tranquilness pierced all dimensions

unfolding in plumes of expire

as dire as the atoms dividing

despair courting  burdensome skies

a chaos of static illusion

yet lingers in mem’ries denied


[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

Wake Me When It’s Over- Nicholas Osborne

wake_me_when_its_over

my boots are caked with mud and shit, and
likely other elements I’d soon withhold from mind;
I squat, with lumbar pressed into a man-dug ditch,
confined to this gashed earth we call a trench;
it’s damp out and my breath puffs precede me—
black smoke from a coal stack—sipping with mechanical
lips whatever lukewarm liquid sloshes in this old tin cup
I hold in palms that used to quaver, when blood
more innocent still coursed their length and width.

I’ve been told my hands look like a those of a pianist;
now just blunt and bloated stubs, with nails dipped in
midnight pitch—crescent slivers from the dark-side
face of a waning gibbous, so deep begrimed that I’d
need to hatchet-hack the digits off to separate
myself from this smut—the dirt that’s thick and
wet, and doesn’t wash off, though I could scour
my skin until I mined to bright white bone; it’s a hell
tar that bubbles up from whatever pit’s below, mixed
with melted rime from last night’s winter, puddled in the
deep, manifold impressions of confused and wayward boots.

and I don’t shake anymore—my nerves so frayed
they couldn’t pass a shadow in between them;
on edge so many shapeless days and nights that
‘scared’ has lost its meaning; I’ve forged my old fear
into a new-minted apathy I pass for courage—not
phased a twinge at the prospect of dying alone,
secure in the knowledge that my head will
tip from my neck soon enough, like what’s happened
to every other horizontal boy right over the ridge:
all dressed up and uniformed, posed like
alabaster storefront mannequins, showing off
their Sunday church duds to the ruptured sky;
splotched first here, then there with blooming crimson
flesh petals—a wild rose garden, sown in silent furrows.

I don’t’ think I’ve slept in weeks, but I tire more
of waiting; waiting for that looming sound to drill my ears
with jackhammer voice and ear-bleed whistle shrill,
demanding that I rise and drop this mug of sick—let it lay
forever lost, stamped into the muck and mire, to be
excavated by some shovel-wielding archaeologist, who sifts
where once I squatted— a few futures from now, in days when
time’s dementia has stolen the remembrance of my name.

girded with my brave indifference, I’ll wrap hands around my
gunstock, and sighing, mount that slimy slope,
where the only way out is over—the only way out
is out—when it’s a relief to finally expire, with nails in need
of manicuring; and I can exist as another cold fixture in
a larger human mural—a hunk of polished porcelain,
shaded thoughtfully in red acrylic that accentuates
my cheekbones; when this fucking waiting ends and
that brass tube screams its guts out, I can charge;
dead or free, or amputee—at last, I’m going home.


PUBLISHED BY

Nicholas Osborne

My thoughts sometimes stub their toes on a pen.

The Shadow Walked Away.

 

i.

                    An old lonesome mirror stands there,
                    in the middle of an
                    abandoned room;
                    existing in a domain where
                    the silence sings of sorrow.
                    And staring inside through the transparent wall
                    I see a shadow brought to life,
                    the same shadow that follows me in the dark,
                    now fades into my reflection.

                    And as my finger tips touch the glass,
                    the silhouette moves away;
                    as if ashamed of
                    it’s manifestation,
                    breathing in this realm.

ii.

                    Since then in every mirror I’d pass,
                    I would search and see my eyes;
                    none obscuring
                    the shallow depths,
                    that the old mirror refused
                    to reflect.

                    But after hence, that wicked dream,
                    My mind was cruelly wrecked,
                    it kept wandering into
                    that abandoned room
                    where the old mirror was kept.

                    Alas! by now the smidge of presence
                    had walked far away..

iii.

                    Weary, broken,
                    clothed in tatters,
                    the heart it fell on the ground,
                    mourning for a murky figurine-
                    that now dwelt in the
                    clutches of oblivion.

                    My psyche just taunted
                    the delicate fraction,
                    weak enough to bow to the loss,
                    and cower in despondency,
                    while it bathed in
                    the glamour..

iv.

                    All ends, and so did end
                    the flight of
                    grandeur and fame.
                    And the thoughts that once would soar
                    were banished from the heavens.
                    Theirs wings lost feathers,
                    as each was ruthlessly plucked out,
                    by the satirical winds.

                    And I savagely plummeted into a chamber
                    lit by flames of failure,
                    forming a deathly beautiful
                    chandelier, hanging overhead.
                    But all that the rays would illuminate,
                    was a lonesome mirror,
                    that was unable to
                    portray the lies of the personage,
                    who projected the image.

v.

                    Then forth I walked
                    in the hidden lanes,
                    far away from the fabricated glam.
                    Collecting the pieces of past
                    that had faded away;
                    withering into a memory,
                    unrecalled;
                    buried underneath the decaying photographs,
                    that painted a soul,
                    for the soulless.

                    While walking
                    through those haunted roads
                    I lost the fear of
                    broken tombs,
                    for my life was too a pyramid
                    of half-truths and
                    deceptions.
                    And I remain nothing but the rejected debris
                    of a dejected hurricane.

vi.
                   
                    So stumbling through the
                    graveled paths,
                    that I had walked with
                    bleeding feet,
                    I fell, on the ground with
                    thirst and hunger,
                    for a love that I was denied,
                    or perhaps that I had
                    betrayed.

                    It was then that I heard
                    the silent whispers
                    of foot fall,
                    approaching me, with almost a
                    ghost like eloquence.

                    Jaded, I refused to look up,
                    and leave the arms of my dark numbness,
                    but my weary eyes were
                    curious so, and peered straight into the mirror
                    where the reflected silhouette
                    wordlessly stood,
                    a peaceful smile on it’s lips,
                    as it slowly stepped
                    into the light.
                    It was only after I fell,
                    and bled and drowned in pain,
                    that the shadow in the mirror
                    revealed my face..

 

••ari purkayastha fallen alone

Ari Purkayastha is just another wild person with wilder thoughts, who thinks that writing them down might mean that the people around her won’t realize how out of touch with reality she really is, but she tends to write random gibberish in the randomest of places, so most already know. She likes words, and weirdly surreal metaphors, and sad songs, and has a sick sense of humor (depends completely on how you interpret sick). You can catch up with her on twitter at @ryekayas or just check out her blog fallen alone.

(And now I’m going to pretend that writing about myself in 3rd person didn’t feel weird at all)

A letter to someone’s saviour by Oldepunk

aletterto

Hey you.  Allah

I feel nothing anymore

If I do, I can’t tell

is it supposed to be this way?

Hey you.  God, why am I

screaming at the fact that you’re aware of my failure which I see sitting demure at a table sipping espresso as the aftermath of the encounter thickens the air and afterwards no one knows what to say and I want to sneer at our confusion but find I can only shout fears in tongues at the matador in front of the corner store

can you spare a holy smoke?

You know the man who said he knew you tried to teach us

he liked to play with the little boys in the parks after dark

my parents decided that he probably didn’t know you but must have had some good lawyers cause he packed up his show and moved on to the next town

anticipating sundown.

I need a cleansing

I wrote this for you.

Christ,

I thought I left ’em all behind

those friends I never knew

and the women I never loved

the things I’ve never done

and the truths I’ve never spoken

those tears should have dried

those emotions should have died

Buddha,

I should have left when I had the chance

and now I am alone and stoned and cold

no longer so bold, I wish I would have walked away

from those lies I’ve never told

pain I never endured

People I’ve never needed

friends I never saw die

the escape route always eluded me

draining my will to try

Do you offer a resurrection

for those of us who got it wrong

will you truly offer me a chance to start again

or was it bullshit all along.

if it’s really a redemption song

then maybe I too could sing

and see what  your new tomorrow

may bring

maybe, If I can be strong

it has got to better than this

Warmest Regards,

I was Wrong

(This piece of writing was written by a young man striving to find his way at a very dark episode of his life.  It is in no way meant to offend anyone.  I stand for freedom for the entire human race in every culture, creed and religion.  I will not apologize however, for my words, for at the time, they were my truth.  This poem does not in any way reflect the views and opinions of the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective.)

 

darkness there, & nothing more – Samantha Lucero

darkness there, & nothing more – samantha lucero

he tells me i should stop
too many “big” words
“too complex for me.
i need cliff notes
like for shakespeare,
so pretty, but i have no idea what’s
going on.” tell me what happened.
be more like edgar allan poe,
he was  s i m p l e  & spooky
& that’s straightforward, you know what’s going on.
have you ever read anything besides ‘the raven’?
apparently not
even the magician i dated said
“you think too much.”
but then again, he also said he loved me
and then never called me back
after i fucked him like faye reagan
and thought maybe, just maybe
someone liked that i thought too much.
thanks for breaking my heart; i’m better now.
so here’s me writing something simple,
nothing fancy
one simple thought
drop by

d

r

o

p

while you tell me i shouldn’t write
my mind at war
war is complex
war is a nightmare, doesn’t make sense
my words are remnants of me in the rubble
& you read the ruins like graffiti on a wall
like a code i’m trying to understand myself
i guess this is the end?


[ Disclaimer: Sam didn’t want to post this. She’s speaking in 3rd person right now, because this is Sam. This was experimental & not her usual style, but two lovely people encouraged her to post it anyway. She’s the ghost-woman behind the curtain at sixredseeds.]

somewhere between history and reality- Ari Purkayastha

Like a parasite, the chandelier
consumed souvenirs
of molten wax-
that streaked cobwebs across
the Kashmiri carpets,
where once your footprints
spun heritage.

But, the windows levigated,
heaved by shadows
haunting the verandas
with a lunar flute like lilt;
while the doors revetted
the decayed masonry
of your legacy.

Yet you coffin the starlights;
and ween history,
your placebo..

••ari purkayastha fallen alone

Ari Purkayastha is just another wild person with wilder thoughts, who thinks that writing them down might mean that the people around her won’t realize how out of touch with reality she really is, but she tends to write random gibberish in the randomest of places, so most already know. She likes words, and weirdly surreal metaphors, and sad songs, and has a sick sense of humor (depends completely on how you interpret sick). You can catch up with her on twitter at @ryekayas or just check out her blog.

(And now I’m going to pretend that writing about myself in 3rd person didn’t feel weird at all)

Morrison’s Confession to St. Peter

BY OLDEPUNK    

jimmorrison

St. Peter greets his next soul at the gates, and asks for his name.  This particular soul shakes his long hair out then looks up and says:

“As long as there is something to hold onto

there will always be hope, struggle, curiosity

As long as I still draw breath

there will always be adversity

until there comes a time in life when I can no longer see

I will know there is something that cannot be taken from me

As long as there is a mother to bring life

there will always be fertility

As long as there is a father guiding

there will always be integrity

As long as there is a son to raise

there will always be prosperity

As long as there is a daughter to praise

there will always be felicity

until there comes a time in life when I cannot be me

I will know that there is something that I cannot see

As long as there is someone to teach

there will always be university

as long as there is more than one way to interpret the lesson

there will always be controversy

As long as there is a student to make a stand for truth and justice

there will always be a revolutionary

As long as there is a brother with which to share

there will always be honesty

As long as there is a sister to love

there will always be family

and the dream of equality

When there comes a time in life

when these are things I can no longer see

I will know that this is what will be the death of the free”

Jim pauses, looks around, and then says,

“By the way, mister, where in the hell are we?

 

https://ramjetpoetry.wordpress.com/

 

Writing Happy

 

flapper3

In my next life I want to write happy, funny stories of weekends that went off without a hitch, photos of back-slapping with funny hats and exotic drinks. I will have a happy, quirky blog chronicling my life of leisure and success. I can’t write those stories, it isn’t my life, and if it were, I wouldn’t be able to write about it. My writing comes from dark places of hunger and pain. I find words peaking out of restroom in the middle of the night, face pressed against the cold, glossy door. Gasping for air, fearful of shadows. There are no words to be captured in neatly set tables, left-overs and urbane exchanges dumped in the trash; my words are born of starvation. I sat in front of the computer for ten years in my martial home, patting my protruding belly, waiting for something profound to say. Nothing. Blinking cursor on blank document. It is pain that drives me, wakes me up in the middle of the night, sending me under the bed with pen and paper to scribble out secret passages detailing stinging fear and loss. I waited on inspiration for a decade in a happy house, and it always managed to sneak out the side door gracefully, leaving disappearing footprints. With each new notch I find in my belt, I find out more about myself. I discover illicit secrets and explosions of ecstatic emotion that give way to words falling out of mind, through fingers, into the world.

Jasper Kerkau

Father

Louise-Brooks-001

My father had a heart attack on a treadmill. He retired two weeks earlier. He lived to work. I lived a life of leisure waiting tables and drinking. I pulled up to the house I shared with friends and my sister was in my front yard crying. She didn’t have to say anything. For a week we sat at the hospital, each in a different state of denial. I felt his finger move that time. I was too old to be waiting tables without a wife or a home of my own. My life was a failure. Deep shame. I would talk to his co-workers or relatives and see the look in their faces as I told them what I did—or rather, what I didn’t do. Eventually it hit me. The shame and anguish of my life burst open as I realized that my father was already dead–he was a shell being kept alive by a machine. Shortly thereafter he was pronounced dead. My mother, sister, and I ate at a cafeteria and had an upbeat conversation and laughed. It wasn’t funny but that is what people do sometimes in the face of tragedy—they laugh. Life wasn’t funny for a long time after that. But, like anything, it eventually got better. I don’t think about it now, his ashen face, his blue lips—the nothingness. Only periodically, when I work too much, does it come to my mind, I think about being sprawled out on the floor of a gym with strangers standing over me pumping my chest wildly, breathing in my mouth. Feeling the life slowly move out of my body. Sometimes the irony of life is perplexing.

Jasper Kerkau