SORROW-TELL HEART – Iulia Halatz

 

I was a pet of some exotic breed

I couldn’t sing above the ground.

Tamed, wounded, half born

Under the dark moon.

It was he

Who taught me

To unsing

Undream

Unbelieve

To him my humane body

Had been a fiery husk

Flickering 

Against closed walls.

The garden was above

Dank meadows looming.

Everything I saw in my mind

I could perceive

With the eyes of

A wound,

Pulsating

Festering

Could I still feel the scent

Of night

in the carousel of pain?

 

I wanted to break

This corrosive perception

And listen to songbird…

Everything that shimmered

In my ears

Was crackling crows

Fruits of mauve trees

Against amber twilight…

In the sundown realm.

The blood of the stars

Had engulfed it…

My heart used to have roots

Into the feeble beams of autumn

After lilacs grew them stronger…

Can you pull me into April?

Or any month

wearing blue odors

And tawny lights…

Pending July

he would be felt on my skin

Like Spring rain

Without Spring.

Sophisticated

Abrasive

Pet

of one color…

I was allowed to contemplate

The flawed days only

through barbed windows…

 

You lived,

But somewhere else

The black moon turned away

Sheltered steppe

Had no need of garbage flowers

The zest for life

Is fortitude, work

Dream

Of a plain new world

Swept in the ascending

Web of Truth.

 

“Writing is an Iron Tale, must be tough and sincere to the core of human perception of pain as valor. I am the grumpy T-Rex who started writing out of pain, not because of a polished world. Writing out of love is painless and herbivore. As we sometimes taste blood, ours or others’. Nevertheless, some words are so expensive that we are better left with them unspoken or write them with the ink of a Ghost…” She is a teacher, small entrepreneur and cyclist.

Sudden Denouement Classics: Daffodils-Olde Punk

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

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

Lettered jailer – Iulia Halatz

You look so sane

potentially careful and serene

Smirk-at-arms

atoning for

the perfumed gaiety

and colorless skies.

The fire in the autumn

dictates the ice in the new moon.

My love,

When are you going to make up your mind?

Set me free

word upon word

I throw in your face

unsubmissive of your bars…

When are you going to break the gloom?

Sorrowless

is your world

You grow your stamina

from my pain…

Minstrels sing of legendary lands

You sing of the legendary cavern

lettered for me.

Some words are

like the spring wind

building with

cherry blossoms

the library

of scent…

Some words

tell

the snows of June

makeshift

a gilded cage

Lit only by a shadow…

Your words are the haze

that glimmer in the distance

Dystopian love

ruling

over eight kingdoms.

One day

I am walking

in a field of poppies

with a sun

that clears

a golden path for me.

The next day

I am bleeding

on thistles and thorns.

You are betrayer

of words

and pilferer of dreams…

Your love expires

every time we drink

the shade of the evening

and the rumours in the stars.

 

“Writing is an Iron Tale, must be tough and sincere to the core of human perception of pain as valor. I am the grumpy T-Rex who started writing out of pain, not because of a polished world. Writing out of love is painless and herbivore. As we sometimes taste blood, ours or others’. Nevertheless, some words are so expensive that we are better left with them unspoken or write them with the ink of a Ghost…” She is a teacher, small entrepreneur and cyclist.

The noise of this brain – Devika Mathur

 

And so I crumble in my own jaw line

Leaking from the iris,

A stoned mahogany stuck

Beneath the frivolous sky,

I lie like a pond, open and scarred,

Rummaging through your eyes,

To seek something that belongs to my lip.

I fail.

I fail the second day as well.

My mind talks pills and potions

A volatile adamant touch of burps.

A ripple lost and secured.

My mind is insane, forever.

 

Devika Mathur blogs at https://myvaliantsoulsblog.wordpress.com/

 

 

Breathless-Erich Michaels

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You left the room

The vacuum you created

Has me raking at my throat

I frantically try to draw in air

I look around and it seems

I’m the only one struggling

The only one who even noticed

That you’ve gone

My hand reaches out

To your point of egress

And all I feel is bitter cold

Biting at my fingertips

I’m losing consciousness

My outstretched hand falls

My now limp arm lies next to me

The warm impression you left

In the couch cushion

Is felt by the back of my hand

Then the smallest of streams of air

Finds purchase in my throat


Erich Michaels describes himself as  “just trying to share the human experience.”  He has a bachelor’s degree in creative writing, but find himself writing SOPs (lather, rinse, repeat) in order to make a living, which can be detrimental to the creative process.  You can find him on the road to recovery at Erich Michaels.  Every journey begins with a single step, right?

Two Ten Second Plays-David Lohrey

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Eminent Domain

 

JOSEPHINE

            (SHE’s just entered, still in hat and coat.)

You’re not nearly as tall as I had imagined.

CHRIS

Josephine?

JOSEPHINE

Larry’s always liked big things: St. Bernards, Cathedrals, winter grapefruit. Do you have a big thing?

CHRIS

How did you get in?

JOSEPHINE

Take these doors. When we first moved in, a single entrance stood here leading out to the patio. Larry took a sledge hammer and just knocked it all out. He’s very destructive, you know. I always keep a key in my bag. Larry was very good with his hands. He put these French doors in all by himself. Do you like them? I always liked his fingers. You really should get yourself a purse. They’re very handy. You don’t love him, I suppose?

(Silence)

Then I really do feel sorry for you.


 

Catharsis

 

THELMA

(SHE sits among stacks of books piled on the floor beside her.)

Literature: it’s all bound up in blood and guts and semen and cunts and dicks and gods and meaning. Don’t you think so?

LOUISE

That’s so deep, so deep, like Plato and Aristotle and Aristophanes and Sappho. It’s the Greeks: they’re real big, and then the French and the epics, the poets. They’re all gay and if you like literature, that means you’re gay, too, like me and Thelma. It’s too deep for appreciation. This is passion.

THELMA

I’m Medea. Kill the kids, rip out their guts, this is it, baby. Bash their heads in, fuck their brains out, eat their shit. Why are we the only ones who love literature?


David Lohrey was born on the Hudson River but grew up on the Mississippi in Memphis. He currently teaches in Tokyo. He has reviewed books for The Los Angeles Times and The Orange County Register, has been a member of the Dramatists Guild in New York, and he is currently writing a memoir of his years living on the Persian Gulf. His latest book, The Other Is Oneself: Postcolonial Identity in a Century of War: 20th Century African and American Writers Respond to Survival and Genocide, is available on Amazon.com. He is also the author of Machiavelli’s Backyard from Sudden Denouement Publishing.

The Execution of Leon d’Oro- Grippo- Jonathan O’Farrell

Somehow, knowingly, he had saved

the last little remnant.

Somewhat dried six and a half month old toothpaste,

 for the morning.

In waiting, the end of the tube,

 or the end of his world,

he could not have, foretold.

But it was not to be, that brushing.

For he was served summarily,

with a single volley at 0102.

But, we have to say, to his delight,

the guards allowed a visitation,

by his favourite nocturnal denizen, around midnight.

Also, it maybe noted,

although denied that final pleasurable squeeze of dentrifice,

by the prior evenings confiscation,

the mutual fellation was supremely salacious.

And he even got some kip,

before the rudely unappointed hour.

Therefore, he really didn’t give a fuck,

this time.

Half asleep, satiated, as he was,

at the moonlit wall.

She will weep, he thought, last thought.

But at least I have penned her this

and she had her last meal, from me.

 

“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

Best Man-Lois Linkens

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Pink tie

A long satin tongue.

Soft black hair,

Nutbrown shoes

And brown skin.

August sun

Is glitter

In the beer,

Like flies across a golden lake,

Bugs in amber.

The bouquet

Fell flat,

A red yellow green corpse

Of us,

And then there was nothing

But your eyes

And my crooked feet

And Bowie

Floats on coloured lights

And all I feel is you.


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.

Montresor/Down Vaults- Basilike Pappa

Montresor - Pinterest.jpg

Since I was born

I’ve been a point definitely settled

(Roses are eaten fragrant)

 

Was it the same with you, Montresor?

Immediate risk of disappearance?

(down vaults where the dead are)

 

Repressed grimaces, forced smiles,

baptised in delectatio morosa.

 (violins playing obsession).

 

I bet you wrote poetry once,

dreamt of being a highwayman.

(Each laughing mouth a wound)

 

Into that hidden maze –the lifelines on your palm–

I kept myself a secret

(down vaults where the dead are)

 

movement – a measure of how long

until I turn myself into

(walls between a man and the Carnival.)

 

 

a weaver of grand jests,

the echo of rich laughter.

(Down vaults where the dead are)

 

Us: the smirk of a god.

We grew to be nightshade,

(loose teeth in the mouth of the earth)

 

but roses? Never.

We were eaten fragrant.

(we’ll stay awake and play.)

 

So be it, Montresor:

Let’s take them by the hand

(Come jingle all the way)

 

through corridors –our mind canals–

and whisper in their ear

(down vaults where the dead are)

 

tales of stone and mortar

below the river’s bed

(a little song called murder).


Basilike Pappa lives in Greece. She likes her coffee black, her walls painted green and blue, her books old or new. She despises yellow curtains and red tape. She can’t live without chocolate, flowers and her dog. Places she can be found are: kitchen, office, living room. If she’s not at home, I don’t know where she is. You can find Basilike up late with a notebook in the Silent Hour.