David Lohrey’s Machiavelli’s Backyard

David Lohrey's Machiavell's Backyard

Sudden Denouement Publishing is excited to announce David Lohrey’s collection of poetry Machiavelli’s Backyard. Lohrey’s poetry is rife with dark humor, biting social satire, and paralyzing honesty. His work illustrates that now more than ever, in a world overrun with vapid pop culture, shortened attention spans, and loss of a collective sanity, there is a need for voices that speak truth, spreading light in the darkness–poetry is alive! All is not lost.

Lohrey is a brilliant artist, a visionary with a keen command over the English language, an ability to make fire out of rock and wood. His collection is available on Amazon and The Book Depository.  October 1st, his book will be available on Amazon Kindle. A pre-order is available for the Kindle version.

If anyone is interested in writing a long-form review, please contact me for a copy of the book. In the process of publishing, I have learned that reviews are an important part of the process. I would ask anyone who purchases the book to go to Amazon and Goodreads and leave a short review.

Jasper Kerkau

Co-Founder Sudden Denouement

 

Shiny Things – 1Wise-Woman

Untied and unraveled

Grab hold of a golden thread

Scared scavenger

Ruptured revenger

Look what you’ve done

You just can’t have nice things

Pick up the pieces

Of crystal hope

And amethyst words

Woven into ruby rope

Twisted around your neck

Wrung and hung

Out to dry

Distorted and deadly

Burning throat

Sporadic heart beat

Flailing to get your feet

Back on solid ground

Due penance

For ornamental existence

Old bones get weak

Bend and break

Under the weight of hate

Burden of your broken body

Baby bird tossed from the nest

Just like all the rest

Feather bed

Skeleton head

Feeding off the dead

Rip away the drip

Seeping into my bloodstream

Coagulated dream

Unexpectedness of living

Coming out of nowhere

Opacity and silence

Fill empty spaces

Everything changes

A thousand miles away

Smiling over my shoulder

A breeze rustles the leaves

As I tuck a feather

In my shiny tiara


 

[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.]

Of the Sword Blade in the Sun – Jonathan O’Farrell

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Of the Sword Blade in the Sun – Jonathan O’Farrell

Some unstoppable truths.

A sword blade has two sides.

The craft of sword making is an old one.

It takes many true and uncompromising elements to make an excellent sword, the right metal, the dark matter that is elemental carbon, white heat of the fire, cleansing waters.

The sword, a strong and mostly unstoppable implement of war, it has two sides. Without both sides it is nothing, not sharp, not honed, not fit for purpose, be it war, defence, or peace keeping.

But when it is strong, true and honed it has unmistakable purpose. And that purpose is not stopped by shields, maybe delayed, but not stopped, ever.  As long as there is the strength of life in the arm that wields it, it will do its work.

Hold it up in the air, against an intense sunlight. If it be held broad side, you may see it. If it be held cutting edge facing into the sun, you may not see it. But at least in the radiant and uncompromising white light of day, you have a chance of seeing it, in all its very final glory.

A sword wielded in the dark of the night is the most dangerous, even to the hand on the shaft of it.

Be it either side of blade, day or night; done with skilled swordsmanship, or blindly thrust, in the dark, by a near do well, the result to the tender and open parts, at its journeys end, are the same, grievous injury, or death.

Wishing all parts of your being true honourable strength, wisdom and light.

Under the sun.

Jonathan O’Farrell Pantreon

[Jonathan is the newest member of Sudden Denouement. He is a brilliant writer and a photographer. We are honored by his contribution. Please check out my interview with Jonathan. – Jasper Kerkau]

 

Never Yours – Sarah Doughty

“I was never yours to do with as you pleased.”

[Trigger warning from Sarah: the following may be too much for victims of sexual abuse or assault. Continue with caution.]

My mouth wasn’t yours to silence. It wasn’t yours to fill with words that were not my own. It wasn’t yours to taste, or to swallow what you gave me. My mind wasn’t meant to be manipulated. To be broken. My emotions didn’t exist for you to dictate. How I should love you. Worship you with blind devotion. Or how I needed to fear you. My skin wasn’t yours to beat into submission. To scar like a brand that bore your signature. Or to enjoy in whatever way you saw fit. My hands weren’t yours to train. Not yours to be enjoyed like a lover’s caress. My body, not yours to educate. To move in the way you liked. To feel you in a way no child should feel. To accept your invasions like a ravenous beast only thirsting for more. Like a good girl would do. Your girl.

You might have created me, but I was never yours to do with as you pleased. I was never yours to break for life.

© 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.]

A Convenient Marriage – Lois E. Linkins

we sleep in separate beds,
to clear our clouded heads.
we keep our secrets wrapped
in gaudy signatures and glasses cracked
over organ flourishes.
we have rooms upon rooms,
some shortage of love
made up in statement wallpaper and bespoke furniture.

the sweeping staircase
holds centre place,
a marble decoy
feels as cold as the flesh
behind the welcome and the wine;
we keep our hands apart,
modern art
stands for wedding photos developed unseen,
money sadly spent
on a white pretence
that fill so many baby dreams;
tradition screams.

mais oui,
it seems that playground jests
have found their poorest manifest
in our little life of theatre.

mama, he thinks our homespun play
is swallowed like tequila,
he believes the empty nursery unnoticed,
sitting in his claw-foot bathtub
with a beard of bubbles,
oblivious to the pool of mockery
in which he is submerged;
mama, it would not take much!
oh, for some sweet humour with the help…
yes, i could be content.

 


 

[ 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.]

Introducing A.G. Diedericks – There’s No Dawn Where We Live

There’s no dawn where we live.

I watch as you step inside my soul,  scavenging for a candle holder,

accompanied by an indefatigable passion to touch this purely

decorative heart.

In my hands I caress your ethereal skin, freckled with my scars. On

your lips, I turn your truths into lies

I’m all that you should despise

Oh, my beautiful marionette

When will you realize?

Tell me when it gets cold, and I’ll lend you my straight-jacket,

whilst I put on another disguise.

 

There’s an equilibrium in madness.

In our tunnel; you had the vision

to descry the years of loyalty beyond the brutality. And time has

stolen everything except our problems.

 

You see, I have always been the architect of my own abyss.

Until you came along and furnished it into your own wishing well,

leaving me to rest & dwell, in this never-ending boundary spell.

Where my subconscious manifest monstrosities,

whispered

beneath a church bell.

 

I remember when we met, you told me that you’re just a figment of my

imagination. I didn’t know it at the time, that we had seen each other

before, somewhere in the trenches of an ominous metaphor.

 

The truth is I am a custodian of doubt, anchored by a lofty disregard

for change.

I don’t remember the walls being this shade of black. I don’t remember

why our ghost writer left and booked himself in for an exorcism.

 

There’s no dawn where we live

I watch as you self-flagellate, injecting yourself with Stockholm Syndrome

I watch your ambivalent tears burn with the aesthetic light of your

smile destitute of truth

And you know that i would let you go, if you would let me..

but you’ve always been more stubborn than me

even now, as you stand there..

laying your incorrigible flowers

on this free-fall bed.


[ 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. ]

Sentence of Sentience – Max Meunier

max

 

Sentence of Sentience – Max Meunier

what have i
but quieted inquiries

hollowed
and echoed
through vales
of a sub-violet druse
of aversion

no tangible touch
to form valid expression

intentions adrift
amid merciless
miles of mutable morass

from which somnolous streams
softly spill
forth eclipses

in lapses
bereft of availing account

where whims slowly waft
beyond walled apparitions

fled from partition
to form in summation
a dormant despair
born of quiet desperation

awaiting conclusion
in sediments muring

a freedom reprieved
of sententious ideal

for what purpose plausible
peers within prisms

but spectacle
cradling consciences captious

enraptured in casting incessant goodbyes

alas
i digress
lest my thoughts
become i

[image credit: Wilhelm Kotarbinski]

Max states: “I write about the things going on in my life. I am a feminist, humanist, cat loving musician bound by whimsy and the incessant analysis of hyper-vigilant observations.  I am obsessed with words and rhythmically woven wordplay.” We are honored to have him as a member of our tribe.  He writes at Max Meunier Dissocative Void.