Welcome to Discover Sunday

The editors of Sudden Denouement welcome you to Discover Sunday. Twice a month, it is our honor to introduce our readers to exciting non-Collective writers who we feel embrace the Sudden Denouement spirit. We hope that you are as excited to discover these voices as we have been.

If you know someone whose writing makes them a great Discover Sunday fit, feel free to drop a link to their blog or Instagram feed below.

Enjoy!

 

Threnody- Diana Korlaet

some divinations in tea leaves dwell

but I prefer the delicate scatter

of incense flecks on rib curves, swell

the breath between gasp and ashen matter

..

furtively I reassemble the dissonant cinders

yet they meld in stubborn sapient array

the pattern sought, lady destiny hinders

granting one final passionate foray

..

each second embraces a hollow echo

our sighs shaped in somber elegy

lips lock, such a lacquered libretto

will to memory languish, lamentably

..

as eyes fire in this breath held night

we suppress the urge to weep, so fight

against the approaching call of light

then bid you farewell

sweet acolyte

 


Visit The Wandering Armadillo to read more of Diana’s writing

A Song of Experience- Nitin Lalit Murali

A lament rises from these dry bones, encased in
a coffin of a life gone by,
when I was young, my father the demon, said, ‘I am thine
and thou art mine,’ with a devilish, deceitful, duplicitous grin,
when I was young, my mother the angel said, ‘Stay strong and
surely, you’ll succeed,’ with a sincere, serene, simple smile,
when I was young, my brother, the stoic said, ‘Your scrimshawed
feelings are yours alone; don’t give them even a peak,
and definitely not a graze,’ with a stern, stubborn, sterile face,
when I was young, my sister,
the naïve said, ‘Yours is the world and all possibilities become
actualities if dreamt into existence,’
with an innocent, introspective, irreproachable charm,
when I was young, my lover,
the impassioned said, ‘Kiss me, you’re the heart of this (heart)
and soul of this (soul)
and never will I ever abandon all that’s you and I,’
with a feverish, furious, ferocious hold,
when I was young, my second lover, the kind said, ‘Paint the colors
of your heart on the canvas of
my being and grasp me tenderly under the sliced moonlight,’
with a peaceful, placid, peaceable touch.

Time drifts and I’ve drifted with it, but not elegantly.
Age carries, and I carry it, but not gracefully.
Life rises and falls, and books meet dust, and this room smells of mildew,
and by and by I’m fading, falling, slipping, sliding.

I’ve learnt much and seen so much more.
I’ve touched much and felt so much more.
I’ve tasted much and heard so much more.

Love eludes me now, whirling round and round, setting everything without on
fire with her dance, but never thawing the ice within.
Lust possesses me now, echoing and echoing, setting everything within on
fire with his voice, and ever thawing the ice without.

Cheap motel rooms and cigarettes; one-night stands and ashen hyacinths –
These I know, these I know, intimately and intensely.

Perfume and cascading hair, with eyes like brown tourmaline –
Her I’ve never kissed, her I’ve never kissed, intimately and intensely.

The smog rises and obscures my window, the world’s full of blurred
objects and abstract shapes, and a simulacrum of truth is all I know,
everything is now a hazy imagination, my vision’s blurred,
the smoke rises, and I exhale, the sharp liquor burns my throat,
a fatalist’s escape, and I know I need the real, but I also know
I want my delusion.

A lament rises from these dry bones, encased in
a coffin of a life gone by,
now that I’m older, I say, ‘Life and death sing the same song in the
same key to the same wind, and what happened will happen again,
and there’s nothing I can do but cut through weeds of paranoia,
despair and angst, knowing I’ll never fully heal.’

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

Read more of Nitin’s writing at Fighting the Dying Light

G E M I N I- Eli Kyoko

You say, my newborn face dwells only in the frames of your ancient house,

and my purity was left in my mother’s womb and arms

So now, you try to cleanse me with your precious soap,

Scour… Scrub… Rub…

and then you conceal me with lotion, some powder, more perfume!

And yet some more, make me sore

Chafed. Excoriated. Distorted.

But I am the one who chokes on all the bitter pills you have to swallow

I am the one who burns your cigarettes as I varnish your thoughts,

and engrave your soul within my poetry

whilst you hide along its dusky alley

I am the one who can assemble your back like a jigsaw puzzle

I know your true colors, your soft spots

I know how to get you down on your knees

I know how we collide in the dark

For I’ve memorized the pieces and the layers of you,

and I’ve traveled the twisted lines on your spine too

I reside within your core, within the crevices of your bones

I am the scabs on your wounds, the callus on your fingers, the dust in your hair,

your best keeper

I am your shadows and I linger like the smell of cigarettes on your damp skin

Oh, my dearest self!

Stop excavating your flesh for my corpse

‘Cause I’m never ever gonna be away,

So—

Eat me whole.


Read more of Eli’s writing at Moonlit Pieces

Blood Moon- Diana Korlaet

the Sea of Tranquility

named by an imaginative soul

yet not a sea at all

a burnished, basalt hole

sunken eye watching humanity toil

a pockmarked director of tides

conducting diurnal rhythm

as we squander, as we spoil

heavenly, cyclic conductor

my monthly crimson hymn

whispers to your balsamic phase

 a veiled face reflecting

in your lakes of saturnine solitude, of sorrow

floating weightless in Mare Fucunditatis

childless in my ferrous scented tomorrow

 

Visit The Wandering Armadillo to read more of Diana’s writing

I’d Like To Believe- Nitin Lalit Murali

I don’t know if I see woolly greenish-yellow pastures
like a parakeet’s breast, and peaks like broad, inverted
icicles, or red, bloody flick-knives of grass that have
martyred cowherds for their faith, leading up to
enormous arrowheads dripping with white venom like
froth, embodying hate speeches and propaganda.

I don’t know if I walk on beige, velvet sands –
nature’s cushion, while ringlets of blue peace
gently wash my feet, or on hard ground like
tourmaline made stubborn by callous hearts,
while poisonous blue little pythons seek to
drag me away into the abyss.

I don’t know if I watch the glassy purple chested
Hummingbird seeking a pink cotton candy flower,
flying neither too high or too low, but finding its
equilibrium, or if I watch a small weapon with a small
bloody scythe we call a beak, and razor-like wings
sucking the blood out of a flower and making it
anaemic, like viciousness masked by a
golden Bauta of tenderness, or getting
one’s way no matter what, even if it meant trampling
someone masquerading as white-prophet selflessness.

Does beauty still exist? Does hope triumph?
Or does depravity engulf? Or does hate have no bounds?

Do I see a pyramid of self-actualization, starting at bare
survival and ending at transcendence? Or do I see an inverted one of
self-indulgence, starting at pure corruption and
ending at bare survival?

Questions go unanswered, and the voices, they haunt.
Things are better unsaid, only because expression kills.

Meet me at the crossroads, where the asphalt glints,
urging me to make my choice, and the spiteful sun
pours his wrath on me. Know me at the ramshackle barn
with battered stalls, dead pigs, dying cows with their
ribs showing, and hay scattered. Draw me to an old, brown
cottage with its rustic charm, nestled in breezy reverie, where
the cold, crisp air kisses and faith isn’t something that only holds
the stars together, but something incandescent, burning within
and fueling hope. Love me until I believe and see again.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

Image courtesy of Pinterest


Read more of Nitin’s writing at Fighting the Dying Light

Out In The Cold- Eli Kyoko

I wore your hat to protect my head
from the debris falling from our family tree
but the spilling blues and red,
lumps the purple on my skin
The invisible scars, the indelible tints
Throbs and thumps within
‘Cause father, when you left
I saw how mother went out in the cold
gasping for life, bereft
She wore my hug to warm her skin, to endure your sin
I caught the cerulean falling stars from her cheeks
and wished for a warmer tomorrow
The bleak moonbeams break
I held the fragments of her soul harrowed
Saturated, dispersed
The sky was disintegrating on our bodies,
perforating our flesh, dilapidating our minds
And everyday I drink mother’s whines
‘Cause father, when you left
I was out in the cold like her
I was my mother, I was a seeker
My soul traversed through the mists,
with your love’s empty fists
I found solace in the flickering light of a melting house, a melting wax
And there I dipped my nib
I sipped catharsis, I sipped relief
And then the pain of you spewed
An icy mountain of desires formed somewhere
I know, you were once there
Now, a part of us is still out in the cold
But my love’s unceasing and my heart shall remain as bold


Read more of Eli’s writing at Moonlit Pieces

Scattered- Diana Korlaet

what is it that makes me want to disrupt dandelions?

scatter congregates of delicate

into frantic disarray

just to see where they’ll lay

.

i have wild silver in my veins

scorched sublingual stains

i am an errant child grown

into a childlike woman

defining my own

..

the script of my life

shall be scrawled with charcoal tip

and when expunged

by the torrents of time

carbon ash, crumbled, finally freed

buoyant, in breeze swirling

with dandelion seed

 


Visit The Wandering Armadillo to read more of Diana’s writing.

An Old Friend- Nitin Lalit Murali

An old friend or one who says he’s one,
tells me he despises ‘high’ metaphor –
as if metaphor were the Tower of Babel,
which one climbs and climbs, until
everything disintegrates into talking in
tongues – but he writes with such verbosity,
that I need a Thesaurus to only figure out that
what’s going on is going on.

And that’s not the point of poetry is it?
Ask me to talk of loneliness, and I’ll
give you a demonic room with crumbling wallpaper,
torn chintz grey curtains, and threadbare couches
with rusty nails sticking out, the dust asphyxiating
you while the television’s grainy screened, but people
around you are paradoxically dancing and revelling in
the same grimy place, smoking their joints, carousing,
cuddling and kissing, perhaps even fucking, oblivious
to glances from dilated pupils.

Ask him to talk of loneliness and he’ll say,
‘It’s a cacophonous Tophet where rumination
deliquesces and the recherché panache becomes
quotidian utilitarianism,’ which basically means
that it’s a shithole that deprives you of thought.

Well, he secretly admires me, and I, the size of
his lexicon, and we don’t need to talk of Autumn
or the Riemann hypothesis to figure that out.

I’ll smoke my cigarettes and drink my coffee
and he can sip his sherry while he’s eating caviar.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

Image courtesy of Pinterest


Read more of Nitin’s writing at Fighting the Dying Light

The Day I Welcomed Darkness- Eli Kyoko

The day I welcomed darkness,
I lay by the window watching the sunrise of memories deliquesce upon my morbid mouth
Smelling the peaches of no surprise,
I let it swill unto my deforested cavity
I’ve been expecting its infliction
Prepared the table with a cup of coffee and cigarettes,
Urged to change the warm comfy sheets and placed some pillows embroidered with my embrace

I knew this isn’t a one-night stand
It has planted the seeds of tragedy in my skin
I watered my body and the ink ripples within
Set to crack into a tree, set to blossom into spring
I long for equanimity up in the moon, my hanging coffin

And it summoned the storm, its dark circled eyes revolving on top of me
I could taste its kisses pulsating within my flesh
Tremors and discordance wrap around my ears,
The metempsychosis of buried bruises appears
Apoplexy and seizures
An intimate crusade occurs
Like forbidden romances,
Destiny prances in my universe
On the day I welcomed darkness,

A long lost lover has finally come home

In the deep,

Inside of me.

 

Image courtesy of Pinterest


Read more of Eli’s writing at Moonlit Pieces