Devika Mathur, a poetess from India is a published poetess and is a lover of everything dark and surreal. Her work has been previously published in Sudden Denouement, Visual Verse, Dying dahlia review, two drops of ink, Madswirl, The rye whiskey review among various others. Find more of her musings at https://myvaliantsoulsblog.wordpress.com
Are there pastorals in a pixel?
I’ve heard it said so.
That a perfect moment holds life’s memories…
yet the playback waits for death.
No better than the world
in a meek man’s hands:
show me the roses growing naturally in the graveyard,
or a romance with a wick for the years.
We can get high enough
if we run the old Buick
with the garage door shut.
We can get high
walking the Lincoln Tunnel,
or gasping for breath
from a Newark overpass.
A thousand office faces
find their dreams in computer screens,
still glowing when the day shuts its lights.
Wither the aortic valve,
just from a lack of use.
myopic Coke-bottle glasses.
The smoke-stacks in a Cezanne.
in the gold mines of a wedding ring –
are we done yet?
Febrile seizures on a death-bed
awaken his famous past:
canyons in the skin
that ran the red of roses.
He’d take his books for walks
till his legs got lost,
down by the waterfront,
down Washington Street.
The clamor of half-built high-rises,
soot of the tent towns
under the highways:
the fast clacking of sharp shoes on the sidewalks,
a briefcase to withstand the bullets.
Strange creatures that lurked down the streets,
mange and tendon and quiet whisper.
The dog with chopped ears
pawed the Plexiglass shell,
as the clerks and the lawyers brisked past.
A daisy grew in a pavement crack.
A daisy grew and the seasons churned
on a playback twice as fast.
Stuck at a stop in the traffic-thronged street was a truck,
hauling concrete to the next empty lot, being filled.
The driver could barely be heard:
the hum of idling traffic,
the overpasses rumbling above;
beneath the sounds of airplane thrust
and the debates of World News Tonight,
the truck driver,
“I loafe and invite my soul, I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass!”
Mick Hugh is a writer for Sudden Denouement, and the groundskeeper at Mick’s Neon Fog.
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.
Does it matter? When you think about it, there’s no proof for either side. The very idea of not being is incomprehensible to the human mind. We bleed for meaning, for something to tear at, we cry in the shower while stroking ourselves, nipping the folds of salvation. We come to the thought of eternal life or eternal damnation, both irresistible to us, stirring a perverse satisfaction in our gut. We press cigarette ends to our wrists, kiss boys with white collars just to taste god between their legs, wake up with a smashed bottle of cyanide in our hands and fingerprints around our necks. We are here and we are not. The meaning of life is immaterial once we’re aware of it; to want is to be alive, to survive is to
I believe you found the core of the poodle there.
The seal of the chamber is ever unmoving. Why care for what lies beyond our sight? To perceive would eliminate the purpose. After all, what is desire but a reminder of our impending death, the grave notion of how everything just doesn’t matter? Ball and chain, pit and pendulum. Now wine drips from the veins of the sky, slashed open by insight. I saw the heavens unfolding. If this is our only chance, why, let’s dance with Mephisto tonight, let’s inhale gasoline and stick our fingers in each other, lick eternity from out chins and dip acid in our eyes. Ours is this world, ours is the piercing tongue of god.
Heinrich, my friend,
we will surely burn.
Henna Sjöblom, the goth girl next-door. Aspiring author. Monstrophile. Horror enthusiast. She writes to cope with mental illness and everyday experiences. Find her at Murder Tramp Birthday