Daffodils

By Oldepunk

Daffodil

The smell of rotting agendas always waft in your wake.  I’ve grown accustomed to your sand storm daffodils.  It’s not what you once were, but what you could be that still intrigues me.  Potential, potentially terminal, with velocity.  Sniper taking aim, the looks you throw with abandon.  I lie still sometimes and pretend I can hear the screaming in your eyes.  I would have given it all for you, you know.  I do not think it would have mattered to you.  You are the song Reptile by The Church.  I can see you sauntering and stalking in the sun by the beach every time I hear that song.  Which is often, ’cause I like to pick at open wounds.  The bloody mouth of puckering pink skin attempting to heal is such a turn on and a visceral reminder of your violence, my violet-skinned lecher.  Your Krispy Kreme coochy-coos hardening my arteries.  And then, slow syrupy suicidal sex. Something in me went dormant when you left.  I vaguely remember why, but it’s fuzzy like flash backs from a blackout or a bad trip.  Which I only had once or twice, but that was more than enough to keep from doing it again.  I would for you though, if you wanted to.  Crashing around in the forest at dusk under deep November skies and yelling fuck-all to the universe.  You were always the spark that started Devil’s Night.  A goddess of Bacchus’ loins.  There was nothing I would not have done for you.  I died when you left.  The husk remains, with the frozen portraits of your jack o’lantern smile burned into my retinas.  My skin still shudders with the traces of your touch.  My gypsy witch, evil love cursing the hearts around you like a speedball on fentanyl on meth that is the last run of the roller coaster and heart is pounding and I will be with you soon and my veins are flame and my heart is a jackhammer and I will be in you soon and I will kill you soon and soon I am coming for you my beautiful malady with the melody of death on my lips… and a fistful of sand storm daffodils.

 

image courtesy of Pinterest and Awkward Family Photos

Sudden Denouement Publishing: David Lohrey and Rana Kelly

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Sudden Denouement Publishing: David Lohrey and Rana Kelly

We are very excited to announce the forthcoming publication of works by David Lohrey and Rana Kelley. Over the course of the last few months, there was a great deal of work put into transitioning our energy and talent into creating a fully-functioning publishing company. Though the process has been arduous, we are beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel. SD Publishing will serve as an outlet for our writers to have access to publishing their work, and we will also be open to submissions from non-SD writers.

     Over the course of the last four or five months, we have seen several of our writers find avenues to publish their work. Nicole Lyons’ published her stunning debut HUSH through the Feminine Collective, Georgia Park (warrior poet extraordinaire) self-published her first collection, Quit Your Job and Become a Poet. We have several other writers who have already published books, and I felt that with the wealth of talent we have at our disposal it was natural that we provide our writers an outlet for publishing.

     I am proud to announce that we have two books that are forthcoming. First, we are honored to publish David Lohrey’s Machiavelli’s Backyard. David is a poet who continues to find ways to stun me with his honesty and mastery of the art. I am very proud of the book and think his work will gain much-deserved attention to this brilliant artist.

      Rana Kelly and I have been finishing up editing her chapbook, Every Breath an Earthquake. I remember the day Nicole Lyons sent me a frantic email that she had discovered a brilliant writer on Facebook. I will always be grateful to Nicole for bringing Rana into our collective. She is fierce, honest writer speaking the secret language Sam Lucero educated us all on. I believe her work will find its way into the hearts of many who share our passion for poetry.

     Additionally, we will soon start the process of putting together the Sudden Denouement Anthology. My passion has always been connecting writers with a larger audience, in the process, we have formed a family. The anthology will be the result of over a year’s work and showcase the amazing talent of our writers.

     All of these projects are a labor of love. It is the work of every writer that makes it possible. We are interested in talking to anyone who wishes to participate in the process. This project is larger than one, or two, or three people. This undertaking will require many people bringing their gifts to the table. I will be setting up Skype interviews with anyone who wishes to participate in the publishing process, or who wishes to have their work published. We all do this for the love of literature. It is our goal to be good stewards to those who bestow upon us the honor of sharing their work. We are a collective; we are a community. We are all stronger together than we are on our own. Sudden Denouement is the most important project I have been privileged to involve myself with. Please contact me or any of the editors with any questions or suggestions.

Godspeed

Jasper Kerkau

Jasperkerkauwriting@gmail.com

Gestalt-OldePunk/RamJet Poetry

RamJet Poetry

Gestalt

Grasping convolutions

anything will do really

corrugated steel rictus

pulls at corners

a shadow play

in ritual dusk

down another

glass of slow derision

at the nearest

watering hole

wondering how and why

I am unholy

reconcile I’m alone

with the pictures

we both inhabit

I could not hold

the fire

so now I choke

on smoke

and bathe in ashes

my breath stinks

of rebellion

my words are heavy

and low, lo

unto tomorrow

riveting the compunction

to depart the now

the how and when of it

matter little

respond to extinguish

the embers

of my love, of

your ruin

I absolve myself

of any wrongdoing

It’s stern

your reflection

I return

to the objection

and babe

it’s all gone down

it’s all your fault

it’s not the noun

it’s not this town

the fade of gestalt

that I caught

standing outside

looking in at

your origins

I am…

View original post 117 more words

broken-OldePunk/RamJet Poetry

BY OLDEPUNK broken
some of us are just broken
born of dust and little disappointments
bleak barrow bones and lamented jewels
made of helpless tears and midnight fears
saltpeter and cobwebs, nickel and newt
lost toys that cost joy
cast of glass and weakness
the forlorn reborn in submission
forced into place even when
the pieces never fit
a cross-threaded screw
muck on the sandal of a forgotten god
a chewed up pen
dull pencil with no eraser
primer painted wagon
with busted wheels
many things of little use
an alchemical composition
turning gold to lead,crack and peel
the Narcissist stone!
you do not understand
as the dead envy the living, so
do the broken hate the anointed, you
as i hate you
as I hate myself
the chipped stone defacing a masterpiece
mold on the Monet
dry rot in the wall
asbestos in the halls
toxic relations and divorces
aria of dissonant discourses
some of us are just broken
one of the unchosen
I am the name it always hurts to say
the reflected shadow at the window pane
you will recall we just were
not the same
the broken one will eat the blame
cherry wood ashes and goat’s hair
shell casings and a hangman’s prayer
the puzzle with the missing pieces
a chill wind that never ceases
bitter pills and wounded pride
all of the shit you try to hide
the hateful words that were spoken
these are the desolate ways
 
we are broken 

Two Seconds-OldePunk/RamJet Poetry

by Oldepunk

two-seconds

Above

looking down from

the edge of earth

there is a hole

in my chest

my essence is pouring out

nuances of memories and

the skeletons of dreams

no one seems to notice

there’s a hole

in my chest

and you can see straight through me

put down in configuration

of paper mache´ and Indian dye

clutter surrounds the opening

I cannot seem to return

pieces to their origin

a grin, a sin, thought of a friend

who is falling through

the hole in my chest

entertaining landscape ebullient

tamp down edges

seal in bronze and copper

vast is all that comes to mind

2 seconds last eternity

I hear the thunder of Zeus

casting vengeance into the nether

dropped to my knees

I know not what to do

there is so much time

there is no time

the parade of echoes

rushing down my

stomach and thighs

merging with distance and gravity

i am forever, i am nothing

horses running wild in the visions

that hammer home a

stifling conclusion

a shocking bulletin

there is a

hole in my chest

I fall back, imploding through

the beginning

I recall womb-love

hearth and home

faces dear and

old stale fears

I am born again as I hear

my last words dropping from

the edge of the earth

“Help me, I think I’ve been shot”

I had died prior to having

the hole in my chest

It was a curious demise

 

 

A letter to someone’s saviour by Oldepunk

aletterto

Hey you.  Allah

I feel nothing anymore

If I do, I can’t tell

is it supposed to be this way?

Hey you.  God, why am I

screaming at the fact that you’re aware of my failure which I see sitting demure at a table sipping espresso as the aftermath of the encounter thickens the air and afterwards no one knows what to say and I want to sneer at our confusion but find I can only shout fears in tongues at the matador in front of the corner store

can you spare a holy smoke?

You know the man who said he knew you tried to teach us

he liked to play with the little boys in the parks after dark

my parents decided that he probably didn’t know you but must have had some good lawyers cause he packed up his show and moved on to the next town

anticipating sundown.

I need a cleansing

I wrote this for you.

Christ,

I thought I left ’em all behind

those friends I never knew

and the women I never loved

the things I’ve never done

and the truths I’ve never spoken

those tears should have dried

those emotions should have died

Buddha,

I should have left when I had the chance

and now I am alone and stoned and cold

no longer so bold, I wish I would have walked away

from those lies I’ve never told

pain I never endured

People I’ve never needed

friends I never saw die

the escape route always eluded me

draining my will to try

Do you offer a resurrection

for those of us who got it wrong

will you truly offer me a chance to start again

or was it bullshit all along.

if it’s really a redemption song

then maybe I too could sing

and see what  your new tomorrow

may bring

maybe, If I can be strong

it has got to better than this

Warmest Regards,

I was Wrong

(This piece of writing was written by a young man striving to find his way at a very dark episode of his life.  It is in no way meant to offend anyone.  I stand for freedom for the entire human race in every culture, creed and religion.  I will not apologize however, for my words, for at the time, they were my truth.  This poem does not in any way reflect the views and opinions of the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective.)

 

Morrison’s Confession to St. Peter

BY OLDEPUNK    

jimmorrison

St. Peter greets his next soul at the gates, and asks for his name.  This particular soul shakes his long hair out then looks up and says:

“As long as there is something to hold onto

there will always be hope, struggle, curiosity

As long as I still draw breath

there will always be adversity

until there comes a time in life when I can no longer see

I will know there is something that cannot be taken from me

As long as there is a mother to bring life

there will always be fertility

As long as there is a father guiding

there will always be integrity

As long as there is a son to raise

there will always be prosperity

As long as there is a daughter to praise

there will always be felicity

until there comes a time in life when I cannot be me

I will know that there is something that I cannot see

As long as there is someone to teach

there will always be university

as long as there is more than one way to interpret the lesson

there will always be controversy

As long as there is a student to make a stand for truth and justice

there will always be a revolutionary

As long as there is a brother with which to share

there will always be honesty

As long as there is a sister to love

there will always be family

and the dream of equality

When there comes a time in life

when these are things I can no longer see

I will know that this is what will be the death of the free”

Jim pauses, looks around, and then says,

“By the way, mister, where in the hell are we?

 

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