Ripe – Jimmi Campkin

When I stand on her footprints my shoe engulfs them, but the memory swarms across me like low autumn shadows. Her goosebumps are Braille to me, without them I am blind. Without my fingertips dancing across her arms, and down her back, I am lost. I live for touch and scent. I cannot feel her bony shoulders anymore. I cannot smell the incense and cigarettes when we bathe in the sun. I long for long greasy hair, bad breath and sweat packed against the shoulder-blades.
I fell in love with her through violence, and I think she would’ve appreciated that. Grabbed by the lapels by a stranger to me, pressed against a wall, staring into eyes wired and unfocused by cocaine and disappointment, I was told; you have to do this….you’d be a fool not to. But I am a fool; always have been. And I always choose not to.
When I run my hands down the contours of her flesh, it is not foreign to me. I know every dimple, I know every crease and I know every fold even as my fingers explore unknown territories. That thrill; the new and the familiar, pulses through me even as all the blood rushes confused like commuters at a station closure between the mind that races and the witless organ that twitches and throbs. I long to lick those teeth, and I long to drown in those thoughts, and I long to be useless next to someone who can activate me.

Jimmi Campkin is a “Writer, photographer, creator of SANCTUARY. 16bit child, INFP with clinical nostalgia and red wine for blood.” You can enjoy more of his work at jimmi campkin.com.

To Quote Walt Whitman

by Mick Hugh

 

whitman

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.

 

Lazy eyeballs,

cataracts,

myopic Coke-bottle glasses.

The smoke-stacks in a Cezanne.

Mesothelioma

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,

and whimpered,

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.

Stop.

 

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,

red faced,

barely heard,

shouting out,

“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.


 

Streams of Consciousness- Jonathan O’Farrell

 

In a rain soaked field
where waters meet earth,
meet the hand of man
a ‘Golden Flower’ holds court
and asks only, for my observance.

I bow my head to it
and the mists immemorial
taking that prospect,
of rains falling

from the heart of the land.

Away, with the Fluss to the Father who surely carries
my wish to the sea,
to far foreshore
and just a little yonder portal.

Not much toil stirs the Sabbath,
save appealing bells,
saving some souls, they toll Sun Day.
Pray. we may touch unity, some day,
with our own atypical resonances.

 

“I guess you might describe me as a semi-nomad, at the moment . . . and in the moment, I might change. I am transitioning into a creative life, blogging, photography and, significantly, the publication of my first two photographically illustrated poetry anthologies, this year.”

Subscribe to my monthly newsletter, with writing, photography, healing garden project updates and travel journals:

https://misterkaki-writer.substack.com

Nil- Mitch Green

Blame the damp easing lost in and out of color.
Pledge it a danger to all and castrate the panting cure
that swells all out of gusto; dead waxen grit.

Taboo are the lianas molesting the edible and transfigured
binary pulpy necrophiliacs riling creed.

Their decay is that which we overdose on.
It is like clutching your breath in frigid water,
decades deep, pronouncing gestures in silent to the unheard.

It is the portrayal of humid southern color and the half
empty animals crossing soil and sun only to become living
landmarks in roadkill country.

The sweating thermostats hang on wooden triangles of glass
in a square foot isle of the shaved and shared.

These avenues of dirt road romance feigns
roving women; sanctuary of nil.

Lay undone, unwed and undressed on
stinging rocks to become prey.
A carnivorous obstruction to mollify.

This is the humid color of summer.
The fox red wife in obscurity chanting invisible.

Be nothing if not marble – quoting the diamonds
that distress the uncanny wire sneaking round her.

Once more this avenue squeals without a name.


Mitch Green founded Rad Press Publishing in September of 2016. He is an avid artist in visual design and literature. Published in various literary journals and magazines: The Literary Yard. The Penmen Review. Vimfire Magazine – Mitch aims to seize the narrow line between all artistic mediums.

A few of his known poetic titles are: “Flesh Phoenix” “Monsters” “The Wolves Howled”.

Offering his hand in graphic direction – his book design portfolio can be found here.
Follow Mitch and Rad Press Publishing on Instagram.

Between You and I-Nicholas Gagnier and Kristiana Reed

Started this poem in transit between my home and manic states. Continued it somewhere between drunk sleep and barely awake. Dedicated to my darlings killed for cheap Friday night thrills, kissing in the backseat of a Chevrolet, I write this poem between being broken and telling myself it will be okay.

I write this when I’m swatting every memory of you away, stuck listening to words which wish to stay. And breathe on the pages of relationships I hope won’t sink. The fledgling fragments take flight in the bath; when I’m naked with half a glass, full and empty. This is how I write best, chasing the sun set in tepid water, foolishly believing every good thing lasts.

I wrote this poem between flowers and their glass vase, shattered on the floor like my million shards of shame. I wrote this for my loves, only for the sentiment behind it to fade, as they became ghosts in the static, FM radio waves.

And maybe this poem will see the light of day, pulled from the confines of my ebony heart. It only looks this way because I like to sit in the dark, and hide from the blue it has beaten for you. I write and I’m pulling apart the crumpled edges of loneliness while driving in my car; straddling the curb to spill the lifeblood of another three ghosts I’ve allowed to stay with me for the hour.

I write this poem from a perturbed place, between deafening silence and awkward bass. Thrill of the chase with tears down my face, facetious and simultaneously lacking faith. I write this clusterfuck in wait of something better, despite knowing nothing could be more remote.

You see, I wrote this between you and I. So even if they love me and I learn how to fly, I’ll never let go of tucking a daisy behind your ear and watching the earth disappear in your eyes.


Nicholas Gagnier is a Canadian writer and poet, and the creator of  Free Verse Revolution. He has published several poetry books, as well as a novella releasing this July. Nicholas supports and engages in conversations around mental health and social welfare, preferring strong literary voices and self-expression to traditional narrative and poetry. He lives in Ottawa with his young daughter, where he runs FVR Publishing and works on a million projects at once.

Kristiana Reed day dreams, people watches in coffee shops, teaches English and writes. She is a curator on Blood into Ink, a collective member of The Whisper and the Roar and blogs at My Screaming Twenties. She is 24 and is enjoying the journey which is finding her voice.

The Loss in Us- Oldepunk and Lois E. Linkens

Life passes, unfettered by the loss in us
I want to touch the echo of you with hands
time has counted twice
Morning’s claw does rive mine empty mind
From dreams more full
And coloured than time aware.
arid fantasy does drift away
to morning dew upon lip of leaf,
to glisten in rays of layered gold
We are creatures on a strange ship
In a curious place. See – the island lies,
All life and shade, its green banks 
Like shiny apples on a ghostly tree.
behold the Fleece hangs dimly
upon crippled limbs, brittle coppers
casting what little light they may
comforts aplenty beseech us to shore
It had once known splendour, too.
The jewelled hands of kings did brush
It’s ‘chanted thread. 
And so it seems, we none of us
Have waged with Time and won.
A parade of somber gaiety
These feeble celebrations deem us hollow
For if’n that mighty Ram may fade
We must gone quietly quick
As dawn to day to dusk to night
A welcome blackness
To close the tattered shapes of what once was.

Oldepunk and Lois E Linkens ( Italics)


You can read more of Oldepunk’s writing at RamJet Poetry

Lois is a poet and student from England. She is studying the literature of the Romantics and hopes their values and innovations will filter through into her own work. She is working on longer projects at present, with a hope to publish poetry collections and novels in the years to come. She is a feminist, an nostalgic optimist, and a quiet voice in the shadows of Joanne Baillie and Charlotte Smith. It is a pleasure to present her work, and you can find more of it at Lois E. Linkens.

Congratulations Nicole Lyons and Sudden Denouement Publishing!

We are thrilled to announce that Nicole Lyons’ I Am A World Of Uncertainties Disguised As A Girl has just been awarded the Bronze Medal in Poetry by Readers’ Favorites.  I Am A World Of Uncertainties Disguised As A Girl was published by Sudden Denouement Publishing on November 9, 2017 and has received multiple five-star reviews on Readers’ Favorites.

Read more about it here

I Am A World Of Uncertainties Disguised As A Girl is available for purchase at Amazon.com and other major book retailers.

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