Dr Faust converses with Schrödinger

By HENNA SJÖBLOM


Was it alive?

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

never know.

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

Madness-Sarah Doughty/Heartstring Eulogies

I’m more than ordinary madness. I’m not a temporary fix, but I am your devil in disguise. That desire setting you to burn like liquid fire flowing through your veins. Let me make you my paper and write all night with ink on my tongue, inciting those flames to grow. Then you’ll never want anything else.


Sarah Doughty is the wordsmith behind her website, Heartstring Eulogies, author of The Silence Between Moonbeams, her poetry chapbook, and the acclaimed Earthen Witch universe, a collection of novels and novellas, all offered for free (https://thesarahdoughty.wordpress.com/useful-links/). To learn more about Sarah and her books, check out her website (http://thesarahdoughty.wordpress.com/about) and Goodreads (https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/13753138.Sarah_Doughty).

The Weyward Sisters: Songs of Ophelia A Collaboration from the Women of Sudden Denouement

you must remember

rosemary, pansies, fennel,

columbine and rue,

You forgot tansy, didn’t you?

When the ground freezes over

And your flowers crumble and brown

Let the ice in Hamlet’s Heart

And the Red on his hands

Deliver him forever from you.

And when you return again

From your journey to the sea

Never forget

It is you.

It was never he.

Rana Kelly/2nd star to the Left, straight on ’til morning

I sat and watched the current roll by today

I think I’d like to float away to a place that I cannot say

You were always directing the rivers flow

I trusted you knew where it would go

But you let me go adrift

Dream chaser isn’t that what you always said?

You’re where the love has always been

Dream chaser dream chaser

don’t mock me now

Its not always the same

You will find me in this life or the next floating down stream

Not a single memory left

Hannah Wagner/The Hero’s Inferno

from up here, the night is clearer.

she is closer to the sky.

the branches cradle her like a mother’s arm,

bouncing in the night’s distractions.

if she stretches high enough,

perhaps the summer breeze

will whip these leaves into a flurry,

and carry her,

perhaps she will join the path of stardust

and deserted dreams

to meet the star-girls

in their extra-terrestrial dance –

she longs,

yet the maternal clasp of mother’s chest

holds her fast,

with ropes of tears and blood.

Lois E. Linkens

Defined always

By men around me

Daughter

Sister

Virgin

Whore

Locked ever in memory

Who holds the keys

To my prison?

Descent into

Watery madness

Sink gracefully

Into welcoming embrace

I will become a mermaid

A siren

No room on dry land

In this man’s world

For a woman of pure heart

To break the mold

Break expectation

My fight floats away. . .

Christine Ray/Brave and Reckless

I don’t want to be surrounded by men anymore

I run, it is in vain, I go in circles

I wish mother would take me to the water

Imagine

A world without mothers

The world would fight in peace

He says it is over Ophelia

But

It’s never over

I tear this watch off my neck

I am sick of biology ticking

I am going to end the world

A woman doesn’t have the power they laugh

I will poison the milk that flows in me

I will take the planet between my breasts and watch it pop

The world will end

When there are no more mothers

Hannah Wagner/The Hero’s Inferno

Ophelia,

but unforgiving

stamping out of the water

a malnourished fetus dangling from her open womb

“Look what you have made me do!”

Ophelia,

but pestilent

tired of men knotting flowers around the slashes on her wrists

to make death look appealing

I’m Ophelia, except I didn’t die in a river

mouth full of seashells and eye-sockets full of mud

I’m Ophelia, alive, burning

blood on my knuckles and poetry scribbled over my palms

Hush, little boy, you tragic Hamlet imposter

I might be coming for you next

Malicia Frost/Malicia’s Malebolge

 

 

 

 

 

Writing on the Wall-Christine Ray/Brave and Reckless

I read the

Writing on the wall

Neon graffiti

Composed of

Cryptic symbols

Stunning words

Of power

Of rage

Of grief

That sting

Like sleet on my bare skin

Ice crystals that burn

And freeze on contact

I recognize your

Artist’s tag

 

I long to

Pull out

Cans of spray paint

From my battered

Backpack

Connect the dots

With hunter green

Soften the edges

Silver and mauve

Rewrite the narrative

Midnight blue

But this is not

My territory

I am unsure of

My welcome

On your turf

These days

 

I reluctantly

Turn away

And walk

City streets

Concrete and steel

Broken glass

Strewn sidewalks

To my 3rd floor

Walk-up

Rows of deadlocks

And chains

On the door

Never sure if

Their purpose is to

Keep others out

Or keep my creative

Madness contained

 

In this room

Of my own

Blank canvases

Await

I pause

Briefly

Consider

What I want

What I need

To express

 

And lose myself

To the process

Weaving words

Of love

Of healing

Spinning dreams

Painting longing

Etched with light

A thing of

Beauty

That you may

Never see


 

Christine Ray writes for Brave and Reckless and The Whisper and The Roar and is a managing editor at Sudden Denouement.

She is an aspiring badass