HOLLYWOOD HIGH – Collaboration – A.G. Diedericks & Samantha Lucero

Heathers and jocks, flock together
You and I tethered to Glocks & black
leather
Clocks broken, shot
into a myopic future
We meditate on bloodlust
of a murdered adolescent reverie,
besotted with living forever
The colour of Mondays changed
when I tasted the insidious guile on
your lips; glossed in Carrie-red
you needn’t incentivize this perilous
heart of mine
for you I would cut off my misanthropic
parchment
and illuminate the dark matter
’cause all that I bleed
is you

coiling in a house where hymns burn
hair
damp or dirt, or fire walk with me.
daddy is a watershed in dallas, mommy
is a wire hanger bent out of shape.
the world is an open wound,
and i am the trace.
you are the knife and the wail.
the wide awake.
the boulevards red myths, sight and
sense,
names in squirming lights, and seeds
on the flashing ground.
west coast skinned knees
elastic mouths and bodies
oily eyes in topaz and
gold canines in the skyline.

Ghosting their covenant of wisdom
Parked at the intersection of
dusk & dawn
Up on Mulholland Drive
We succumb to it’s lecherous stratosphere
with Hotel California on the radio
lighting smokes out of a trophy of ashes and tossing it into a hedonist zephyr
as L.A.P.D sirens start to sing in the background
Our fingerprints dusted by
the Chinese Theatre…
Hollywood as our alibi

you can see the wit of vanishment in a
wag of night
spirit and vein and wet, the pacific
rehearsing
my longtime name in the paunch of a
sand dollar where
a lover’s walk will stall with age and
wilt.
with the creek of it to your auricle, it’ll
sail in your ear.
but we are bionic serfs in an electric
city,
cordoned by chapters and eyes
sallower in the dark
dark, dark. can we pry open the
stillborn to find landmarks.
how deathlike are the lights.

Pop culture studies us
The media pine for answers
Clogged with a 60 minute survey
– Did their parents love them?
– Do they have a mental illness?
We side-step their clichés
and break the fourth wall;
Gravitating to the camera with verve
’cause we had a cause to be caustic
when faced with their plastic personas
stalking Beverly Hills fat cats
like taxidermists
And we won’t depart until our followers up stage Manson
Charles or Marilyn, its all the same in Tinseltown
where we carve out billboards
with a paramount question…
Why do you fear the children you’ve raised?

to be continued…


 

[ A.G. Diedericks: “write what you know” are the four most soporific words I’ve ever heard. I am a divergent writer who couldn’t give 2 fucks about striving to be the best. To write only what you know, is to play it safe. Art is imaginative rebellion. I am engaged with the versatile risk takers, the ones who are not afraid to take their shoes off & get dirty. I write & curate at Morality Park. ]

&&

[Samantha Lucero writes books and poetry, short stories, is a historian, heathen and philosophically speaking, an absurdist. Sisyphus being the ultimate example of the absurdity of human existence. She occasionally writes things at sixredseeds.]

This is the End

the end

We want to reach out.
But baby
here, now, this is the end.
We know, we know ‘ the end ’. We’ve lived inside it.
Slept. Slept. Inhaled.
Creatures of absence.
Your eye is an alien being.
It alone sings. A rotating rim.
Continuously revolving in the hemisphere’s strange music.
I look down. My feet are shadows.
As are my thighs. My body. My bones.
All flesh is a memory.
I see its desperation in the starched sky.
I am the remainder. The remainder of distortion. Climate of mishaps.
I say this is the end.
Your fingers tackle my defeated hair. You wish for sound.
You almost demand it.
But I only meet you in clever silence. The loudest kind. The ugliest kind.
I meet you in suffering.
You wish for me to speak.
Tell you that I love you.
But I only dissolve. I dissolve like all matter does.
In inconspicuous battles. I’m almost fluid. I almost do not exist.
My face is streaming into yours.
My hands clasp yours and forge starfishes.
We are satin blue.
I hold you close to my mouth and kiss your bright skin.
Your mouth melts off
and your voice floats like snow flakes in my chest.
‘ This is the end. ‘
It says ‘ this is the end ‘.

 

Aakriti Kuntal is a 24-year-old emerging poetess from the country of veritable colors and stratified rainbows, India. A Network Engineer by profession she has been writing for over a year now. She enjoys nature, music, all things geeky and all things art.

Aakriti writes for the Writings of Aakriti Kuntal, and her work has been published in 1947 Literary Journal, Duane’s PoeTree blog, Visual Verse and Indian Periodical among others.

i checked myself

i checked

i have checked myself and seen that i am nothing; 
the bones of poets gone and done 
lay beneath the hills. 
i put on my boots and took my shovel, 
for to disturb them 
would be a lesser crime than to ignore.

i checked myself 
and saw that i was nothing; 
i looked for art 
and saw it slither into bank accounts in dead of night, 
while the dewy brows of poverty’s poets 
tremble in their plight. 

i checked myself
and let myself stand up.
stand up, i said –
stand up, writers! 
stand up for complexity, confusion and colour. 
take your pennies and forget the pied pipers, 
they have led naught but rats.

i saw the riches over realness, 
splendour over solidarity… 
i cried upon my pillow. 
my people, my people!
when the muses so return, tell them why you wrote!

we not one of us free falls –
i checked myself…
something always had me.

 

[ Lois describes herself as a “confused english student,” though one quickly finds a polished, charming poet in her work. She has an elegant style that compliments her keen insight and whimsical sensibilities. It is a pleasure to present her work, and you can find more of it at Lois E. Linkins.]

Surface Dweller – 1Wise-Woman

Prison of promises
Delusions for the damned
Lies and betrayal
Death comes in intervals
Layer upon layer
Until all that is left are
Living dead
Shuffling round my head
Knocking at the door
Needing more
Offering less
Say you will save me
Whispering I love you
Behind my back
Fingers crossed
Soul stealer
Contradictions collect
In cranial crevices
Where absurdity blurs
Redundant reality
Devil keeps me company
Tap tap tapping claws
On protruding spine
Reciting rhymes
Psalms of sacrifice
Fracturing fault lines
Interrupting time
Minutia mocks me
Days become weeks
Become months
Become hell on earth
Eroded
Dusted eyes
Search ashen skies
Stifling cries
Regurgitated hope
Assures every ending
Begets a new beginning
Rueful rebirth
I’m waiting
Gunpowder on my breath
Surface dwellers
Feign faith
While I die my last death


[1Wise-Woman: “I am living, fighting, and thriving with mental illness and chronic disease and a need to express myself. Writing eases some of the weight I carry.” When she isn’t yanking shadowy strands of leathery clumps of unconscious, and tenderly placing them into word documents, she is creating at A Lion Sleeps in the Heart of the Brave.]

Time and Sticks

By Aakriti Kuntal
Time and Sticks
My legs elongate
into uncertainty,
their uneven shapes masquerading
a rather even formlessness
Prickly clouds hang
with shaven heads
and Clot
the artery, the pace,
the rhythm of this slovenly existence
I tap the round edges of my calves
and meet the rising color of age,
a darkened maple hue,
accumulation of multiple days
cemented boundaries of blurring worm cells
fountains of tension and pain
Occasionally I think
I could bury myself in space,
Swallow vacuum like food and create a gaping hole,
a minute, a day, a lifetime
Anything that spells ‘ Okay ‘
Occasionally I think
I could burn onto the side table
and nothing will take notice
not the cold sheen of blue curtains
not the clocking lights in my room
That nobody will take notice
And suddenly I will be sliced into two,
two equally nonexistent dimensions of time and space

image courtesy of Aakriti Kuntal

Aakriti Kuntal is a 25-year-old emerging poetess from the country of veritable colors and stratified rainbows, India. A Network Engineer by profession she has been writing for over a year now. She enjoys nature, music, all things geeky and all things art.  Aakriti writes for the Writings of Aakriti Kuntal, and her work has been published in 1947 Literary Journal, Duane’s PoeTree blog, Visual Verse and Indian Periodical among others.

Death Knell – Sarah Doughty

“Then, like a death knell, you arrived.
My monster. In the flesh.”

It was the thump, thump, thumping of your uneven steps, as you made your way in my direction. I knew those footfalls like they were alarm bells going off during a fire drill. They pierced my eardrums like thunder. There was nowhere to run, and nowhere to hide. And there I was, helpless to do anything about it. So I did the only thing I could.

I counted the steps — thump, thump, thump — each one growing louder. Closer. By the time I counted to ten, the night seemed darker. As if the stars closed their eyes and refused to shine. Twenty. With every beat, my heart pounded, pumping battery acid through my veins faster and faster — thump, thump, thump — until the last step. Thirty.

Then, like a death knell, you arrived. Thump. My monster. In the flesh. Darkening my doorway. It was then that my torment would begin.

© Sarah Doughty


 

[Sarah Doughty is the tingling wonder-voice behind Heartstring Eulogies. She’s also the author of The Silence Between Moonbeams, her poetry chapbook, and the acclaimed novels and novellas of the Earthen Witch Universe. Good news, they’re all offered for free, right here! To learn more about how awesome Sarah is, check out her website, stalk her on Goodreads, or both.]

Anachronistic Rant – A.G. Diedericks

History void of sapience

I am the spectre

of regurgitated fallacy

I carve the crevice

in impregnable absolutes

the blood-splatter in the crevasse

of your ice sculpture

where i birth postmodernism

and cut off the crimson springs

of solipsism

 

Children raised by the idiot box

extinction of libraries

words replaced by letters

A climate change

bonfire of trees

A nation impeached

acclimation to a blue bird’s speech

 

Hubris draped in white cloth

 the sloth that doth not protest

Suffragettes suffocating

for egalitarianism

 

Robots dictate pedestrians

look to your alt-left

look to your alt-right

I know where I left my keys

can you help me find

my fucking mind?


 

A.G. Diedericks is a cinephile in the midst of being gentrified into a bibliophile… colonized by mediocrity. He moonlights as a clandestine writer. You’ll find him in a dark alley over at the cuckoo’s nest, where he often lays to rest in Cape Town, SA. ]