Introducing Aurora Phoenix – ‘The Uprising’

there is a primal roar

building within her

founded on the

atoms of dirt

scrounged by grappling-hooked toes

scavenging salvation

from precipice’s

teetering edge

as they curled

in orgasmic throes

of borrowed ecstasy

 

the rumble surges

up exasperated tendons

above scabbed knees

upon which they forced her

failed to keep her

despite repeated bloody

bludgeonings

 

the portending implosion

reverberates cataclysmic

through hallowed

and maligned walls

of her invaded

as yet unvanquished

vagina

 

the latent blast

rises roiling

beyond belly churning

beset with tormented butterflies

swallowed under duress

with teaspoonfuls of shame

taking her medicine

 

the gathering blast

trembles with the

accumulated heartaches

of feminine generations

spasms aortically

spurting crimson

crushed inequities

 

the impending cosmic levitation

upends flustered follicles

as lightening

bolts of righteous rage

flash incendiary shafts

from eyes and lips and tongue

 

the lacerating howl

tears her asunder

unleashes her tether

to a byzantine past

shreds constraints

denudes her quivering

purest soul

 

 


[Aurora Phoenix: I spent over 2 decades as a clinical psychologist, prior to the decimation of my world when I was suddenly incarcerated 2 and a half years ago. My writing was born in that caged existence – not a choice but a soul-saving necessity.  I write as Aurora Phoenix at Insights from “Inside”]

A New Poem by David Lohrey – After Providence (1977) thevoicesproject.org

mother-and-daughter

David Lohrey, author of the forthcoming book of poetry Machiavelli’s Backyard, which will be published by Sudden Denouement,  has a new poem published via The Voices Project. The title of the poem is After Providence (1977). Please take a second to read and share David’s wonderful poem. It seems that many people are coming to understand what we already know, David is a poet of the highest order. It is exciting to see him finding an audience. David is smart, and kind man possessing incredible wit and wisdom.

http://www.thevoicesproject.org/poetry-library/after-providence-1977-by-david-lohrey

GUEST BLOG: A.G. Diedericks, “The Library Bandit “

She’s the clandestine love child
of Plath and Poe
Where it is dark
Her words will glow

You’ll catch her on every
Library’s most wanted list;
Armed with a loaded lexicon
Her paper cuts plagiarists
Nuances ciphered in arcane;
She transfigures
into the Bibliophile’s Cocaine

A Bonnie liberated
from Clyde
Enslaved by her soul..
She struts like a wildfire
at the ball of a debutante
Oh, the devil knows
she’s no dilettante.

The pyrotechnics of her chaos
rendered the sun jaundiced
She surfs on tsunamis
and dances with tornados
Ravenous hurricanes hunt
to copyright her name.

She pays the poet
with liquidated journals
of Iridescent nightmares
& cremated reveries;
scattering her history
in depths of poetry.

Her misdemeanors articulates
in solitude;
Where she silences her Demons
Hush, it’s story time..
A martyr for literature;
She fights for that killer hook
that forces the page to turn..
For she’s the book
that you’ll never return


[ “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. If you’re reading this, then I’ve just been exposed to my first publication.” ]

Viperidae – Howl Davies

You are a dangerous game,
my paralyzed portrait of sweet disposition,
my little nest of vipers,
painted arsenic like sugar,
I don’t want to shoot up –
crack the ribs,
defile the prison,
defile the sanctuary
and drive it straight to the heart,
pump, pump, burst,
make me worthy,
make me a martyr in my own right,
string up and collapse my lungs,
my depleting feeble lungs, rot,
paint over the coarse black taint
coated fumes of my
first home burning,
your transgressions,
your violence,
your horror,
your paperclip demonology circle
of office rituals and nameless memos
oh, how I obsess over you,
the caress of your venomous words,
the way I picture you;
your depriving cobalt eyes,
hunchbacked over a cat-skull-lantern,
obsolete as the nuclear gods,
are you satisfied?
never
have I come so close to
being paralyzed,
stone breath vision,
gorgon Viperidae, succulent
sidewinder black lies, I can taste
you on my teeth,
my dear,
turn me to stone,
make a saint out of me.


[Howl Davies is the groundskeeper of The Sounds Inside. Also? “Cat-skull-lantern” is one of the coolest fucking things I’ve ever heard. – Sam L.]

Need for a sick bag – Nathan McCool

I’m a rare coated stag. Gut shot for sport and
forgotten in a field of
painted moonlight.
The hunt is over, the storm is here. Beauty
all sheathed inside a gun barrel…
I think I’m dead now. I need a new scene.

I’m the out of tune keys on a piano, that
some rusted god keeps playing before he
heads off to a bookstore
where he constantly asks,

“Got any remedial shit with no substance?”

“Yeah. Check any shelf” the faceless
pseudo-librarian says back.

And the more he reads and the more he reads and
the more and more…
it’s just more hope he loses;
arms just getting tired of holding pages
burdened with
cliché poems and redundant stories.
(Have I read this before?)

“But really? You cut down a tree for this shit?”

It had more real poetry beforehand.

Now the rusted god goes to sleep and
now I am the rusted god.
And the only thing either of us still hopes for
is that if I publish a book it never comes here.

Not to visit.
Not to fuck.
And especially not to die.

***

Tucked away behind some shit book
about learning to love yourself I find
Nick Cave’s “Sick Bag Song”…
Now that’s a god damn jewel!


[Nathan McCool is the dark lord over on Instagram at God Of Dregs.]

He films the clouds in two parts – Howl Davies

I

you spend the day
balancing on piano wire,
romancing with holy fathers,
convicts, and harlot martyrs draped
in derelict scarlet, feeling alive in
the war-torn breach,
you, the survivor,
of life and death, of hunger, strife,
I embed you
in this rendered skin of mine,
you preach and I obey, there
isn’t a night I don’t feel alone,
nor a day I don’t feel anger,
but you atone for me, ringing
brass on the shifting plates,
sifting the off-tune singing
in the base of my skull to a drone,
I always admired you,
always aspired to spread your word,
I have lost my way,
I am just so tired,
this dried blood creeping down
my brow makes this all so unfamiliar,
the gore has no source, and its
destination – unclear, it lingers,
like the ghost of a marriage, mingling,
biding time to gnaw on the stitches,
you taught me to keep myself humble,
digging ink into my fingers
for the switchblade mistress I admire
so fondly, the silent claim, the sister of mercy
I’m sure I will see her soon,
and from there, who knows?
maybe I’ll look to salvage myself,
kiss this unbuttoned pattern of my neck,
is that what you would have done?
you always had a plan,
even when the doctors pulled back your chest,
startled by your marble heart
you always had a plan.

II

you took the reckoning out of the end-game,
and as you waved goodbye,
showing the world up with a smile
you threw the fight,
we knew you were far from done,
we buried you with your camera at your breast,
you always wanted to spend your days
filming the clouds,
we left you with a dozen reels,
I hope they didn’t weigh you down,
my friend, your repast awaits you,
capture the clouds as they languish,
a backdrop for the labyrinthine streets
we paint ruby and sapphire in your image,
and coax the hinges of the boulevard,
we all miss you,
the rag-tag gathering of singed daydreams,
the ruthless and the sweet, igniting
crushed velvet, the scent of freedom,
we were so foolish,
enduring in hushed nonchalance till
we see what you captured, unfurling what
you distorted, the fly-trap paintings stained
in the vapours, double-sighted passion
in the remnants of engagement, with you
this collateral disfigurement was a delight,
no matter how my casing crept and shifted,
we couldn’t both make it out alive, time to collect, time
to set you free, set you back, set you out of the hive,
the forefront for the wretched,
don’t forget me, please,
as you bring colour to the
autopsy of saint Sebastian,
as you kick a hole in the sky,
fasting amongst seraphs,
catching your Serbian montage
in the heart of the tempest.


[Howl Davies is the spectral puppet master crawling in The Sounds inside.]

bogged, buried, bridgewatered-Lois E. Linkens & Malicia Frost/Malicia’s Malebolge

I was fourteen, and starting to decompose faster

the water spilled

over the years,

over her body

like a plague of ants.

Already kneeling in the mud

I could feel my body being stretched out 

nipples aching, labia swelling

it drove its way in,

with a silent battering ram

and swords of silk.

you were the first time

I felt the touch of death 

between my legs

oh, hateful –
but grateful she was
that the stone struck when it did.

a cry of despair,
like when I was nine,
lying on the hard parquet floor of the living room
cupping my breasts,
trying to push the knots back in
I’m just a child! I’m just a child!

she lifted dead hands
in praise of her protector,
for protect her he had,
and as layers of dirt built up,

I threw rocks after boys
who came yelling my name

she pitied them,
Leave me alone! Leave me alone!
And oh,
didn’t you know?
You’re supposed to bleed

bound to lie
in pungent darkness
that she only made danker.

Year by year,
as my body sank down in the bog
I grew more and more desperate
searching for ways to cleanse myself
an orgasm,
a reckless mascara plump on the cheek,
a slit wrist,
an aching need
for affirmation
the summary of an entire childhood,
tucked into a bra

the sores on her skin
filled with soil,

all girly things are good,

the scars on her arms

bright in the black of the bog

all girls to learn how to play nicely

how to decay without a sound

compressing yourself into a fossilized smile,

a blindfold

and a constantly repeating

“yes, I forgive you”


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 we ask you to take a second to look at more of her wonderful work.
Malicia Frost, or Henna, is a hobbyist writer and an aspiring novelist from Finland. She enjoys surrealism, sci-fi and horror, and her works often deal with mental illness. More of her works can be found at her personal blog.]