Are You Fucking New Here?- A Weyward Sisters Collaboration

You dropped by today

dissected my verse

thoughtfully pointed out

all the ways I could

smooth out my edges

improve flow

to slide more gently past

your discerning eyes

you must be fucking new here

if you think

I was asking for it

not a fan of unsolicited advice

my “friend”

I like my truth

raw

bloody

with a hint of lemon for acidity

that stings going down

(Christine Ray)

Oh, hello,

I didn’t see you there

although I can already tell you like to stare,

as if it is your obligation

to females everywhere.

And everywhere you seem to be.

You’re the type who lingers in keyboards,

assaulting our letters

with ones you would never dare to speak.

You’re the type who visits galleries just to sigh,

point out the vulvas in the petals

and tut at a landscape you’ve never visited.

You’re the type who slumps way down in the theatre,

feigning sleep during her monologue

because it is ‘feminist and shit’, and yet

she’ll be the only one on your mind

when you reach down tonight.

Oh, how do I know this? 

Why, because you always come back for more.

For more of my letters, pretty letters,

your coeliac stomach cannot wait to reject.

(Kristiana Reed)

You stab me with a misplaced comma’s edge,

expect me to bleed ink, but I blossom gold

leaf, like pages of a holy tome, and your

lines of prose crackle in my burning gale.

I am more word than woman, you see

and I am truth, your haunting just ghost

of all those who said no, who pushed me

down stairs of paragraphs, but I got grit,

I grew wings of paper, from you I fly.

(Allie Nelson)

hey you there –

with the pursed lips

and furrowed brow

click-clacking

your studied

critical analysis

of these driblets

of my life’s blood.

you must be fucking new here

if you mistake

the penning

of my soul

upon the page

as a request

for literary critique.

this, here

is the juice of my carotid

scrawled with fingertips

as I apply

tourniquet and poultice.

your worded attempts

to package my agony

into neat and tidy

boxes

are ill-advised salt flakes

poured into my wounds.

(Aurora Phoenix)

Soft upon the scene

He entered

Mushy odorless rambling

Entailed:

“Darling, how are you faring?

Your words are dancing in my soul

Your star shines upon my dreams.”

Going after me

Feeling my every words’ step

With a presumptuous club

White and black penned music

That clawed silence to my ears:

“You are the brightest…

Fade away, you heartless beast!”

(Iulia Halatz)

i picked up my pen and out came all of me.
it poured and poured,
filling space with untrained words and anarchy,
sharpened love, feelings bent,
a keenness breathed without judgement,
ink balled with mercy
into something of me that might speak in truth.
but you sat and held your cup,
and watched it spill.
you put it in your cabinet
with a yellow note: ‘could do better.’
i would those curling lips
might taste the poison in the teacup
between your eyes;
that is where the horror really lies.

(Lois E. Linkens)

You must be new here, because tact and common decency seem lost on you. You see, it is not okay to call a woman by any other name than the one she has given — so don’t call me Baby and I won’t call you Tiny. It is not okay to insert yourself in my life and assume I need your sage advice — if I want to know, I will ask. Do not presume to know what I am thinking, or what my heart is trying to say — because you can be damn sure that if I wrote the words, I meant each and every one of them. I’m not perfect, and I never claimed to be, but I don’t need a lecture on semantics or grammar — I’ve had more than enough schooling and experience to know my own mind. But, if you really are new here, remember this one simple rule: if you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything at all.
(Sarah Doughty)

You enter my house and

manhandle my verse. You

wonder why my

heart spurts crimson with

every heavy beat—

pressure me for information.

Why so mocking?

Why so angry?

Why the foul language? Bitch,

you must be fucking new here

if you expect an

explanation.

Cos I don’t answer stupid

questions.

Grow a brain, and

get a clue.

(Kindra M. Austin)

 

The Color of Beach Sand- Kindra M. Austin

We had you pushed into the furnace;

spoiling organs and

leaking skin were

burned away.

Your pulverized bones

resemble beach sand in

Tawas,

fittingly.  

 

Abandoned the wagon

again,

Cos I’m a goddamned tyrant,

missing you, Mother—

been consuming for two

twelve hours, and I

will continue to imbibe until my barbican

heart has been razed.

This early morning,

trust,

I’ll make it to market by noon—

I learned how to function from you.

 

Mother,

are you proud of me,

still?

I ask your ashes kept in

keepsake urns. Ashes—

granules, the color of

beach sand.

Painted Fingernails- Jimmi Campkin

Everytime I go to bed, I can see the stain of green hair dye on the low ceiling, where you cracked your head whilst vigorously riding me – yelping, eyes clamped shut and a gaping smile on your face, sucking up all the oxygen in the room and leaving me gasping for spare atoms.  Of course, you were thinking of someone else the entire fuck, I knew that even at the time, but beggars can’t be choosers.  I didn’t choose to worship you.  I’m an atheist.  I didn’t plan on worshiping anything.

But as something tangible, you seemed a better bet than a concept designed to keep a feeble species in line.  You kept me in line.  And as feeble as I may also be, at least I could run my fingers down your stretchmarks; I could drag my nail over the little serrated dimples on your thighs; I could play with that mole on your hip and wonder at how it is surrounded by several smaller ones, a little solar system almost permanently hidden by the elastic of your underwear.

My deity was flesh; three day old mascara, a taste of cigarettes and last night’s bourbon and coke, with dark circles under your eyes from dancing your legs down to the knees, and the smell of the smoke machine in your greasy hair.  After the end, I spent many evenings in that club, dancing with other girls whilst watching you over their shoulders – dancing alone, happily not giving a fuck.


Born in November 1983, I have been writing in some form or another for most of my life, but I began to take it seriously as a career around 2003/2004.  Since then I have produced a novel, a novella and a series of short stories some of which are loosely linked into an overarching anthology.
Most of my stories come under the wide umbrella of ‘general fiction’, but I have experimented with genre pieces.  My short stories tend to be bittersweet, nostalgic, sometimes melancholic and (on occasion) examine the darker side of human nature and obsessions.
I welcome you to my site Jimmi Campkin, and I hope you find something here to please you.  If not, below you’ll find a big picture of me to scream obscenities at.

Tempus fugit-Erich Michaels

I imagined walking across the ocean floor
The immortal lobsters and jellyfish my friends
I said, “I wish I didn’t have to breathe.”
I thought of wasted time and dreams deferred
Of taking this split life and making it whole
I said, “I wish I didn’t need to sleep.”
I thought of money wasted, as hard to swallow
Of elevating myself above base needs
I said, “I wish I didn’t need to eat.”
I thought of myself as being set free
My life as a slave to the clock departed
She said, “Stop it! Why wish for death?”
Confused, I reflected on what I had said
Of what could be gained by being free of need
No need to breathe, sleep or eat
It was at that moment I realized
Just what I had really wished for


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?

Can You Feel the Winter Coming?- Allie Nelson

Kneel for the Alfather, in standing stone,
bloody runes on the boulder and crawl in,
soak in mead and honey, tangle your hair,
it is golden in the dark cave, burn burn.

The firmament churns like Urd makes butter,
Frigga spins flax and cards heavenly wool,
I make rainbows out of Heimdall’s breath,
but the Wild Hunt does not ride my Bifrost –

No, my path is for the dead, past Helheim,
in unions in darkest earthen cauldrons,
slick with the dew of Ymir’s icy wastes,
I am alone in Ginnunungap, paltry salt.

I am Mordgud Blood Maiden, I am bell toll.
Watch me weave my arteries on my spine,
pay my ferrywoman price, tithe your Hel
I will offer you to Her, nothing more.

Nothing less than a table at Hela’s dry
feet, the dust bread of dead, silence.
Down here it is cold but no one wants.
Down here it freezes, but we don’t feel.

Can you see Her spread Her fingers aloft
in the vines of veins, veins of leaves,
ribs of trees, trees of the nine worlds?
Winter is coming, Odin does not own it.

Winter is coming, and Fenrir howls high.
The moon is eaten by wolves, the sun bleeds
gold then darkness in Hati’s lupine womb,
plant seeds in beast’s black after harvest.

Winter is here, Hela walks as ice maiden.
Autumn just a passing fancy, and Valraven
rots on a yew, corpse bloated and swinging,
in Dying He is more alive than the Living.

Know the secrets of Hela Half-Rotted, see
the pennants of flesh on her corpse breast,
smell the compost and dirt of Her skin, kiss
Her bone hand, and sleep until springtide.

Sleep, dream, die, it is all the same to me,
for I have dreamed and died and eaten ashes,
She was sweet to me, He was a thunder strike,
in autumn He and She make a secret only I know.

What is the secret of Bolverk and Loki’s Pride?
It is sweet Balder on a shiply pyre adrift to
seidhr waters, golden Nanna enflamed, safety
is only found after Ragnarok, wouldn’t you know?

Winter came for Balder come mistletoe’s kiss.
And Odin rides the worlds for His son’s ghost.
Sweet Frigga weeps tears of sapphire, then snow.
And Hela and Nanna talk long by the hearth-side.

Winter comes for us all, even the gods, even
Death will Die, and in Dying, Live Again,
Anew, Life Eternal may be found in snow.

 


Allie is a rather bubbly blonde that currently attends grad school for science communication, has a rather useless degree in biology, and works in the environmental field. She can usually be found hugging trees, eating green curry with tofu, or exploring the wilds of D.C.. Allie is an avid poet, aspiring author, meme queen, speculative fiction enthusiast, and alien centaur aficionado. She also has about 600 lipsticks.

You can find her at Dances With Tricksters

Conversations with Jasper: Interview with Jonathan Farrell

SAMSUNG CSC

[Photo: ©Jonathan O’Farrell]

[This is an interview I conducted with the newest member of Sudden Denouement, Jonathan O’Farrell. I have had several conversations with Jonathan about his photography and poetry. I looked forward to the contribution he is going to make to Sudden Denouement and will be posting a selection of his poetry in the near future. He is an immensely talented individual, who has wonderful poetic sensibilities. His work is featured primarily on Patreon.]

Sudden Denouement Collective Q & A. – Sunday 13/08/201
Jasper Kerkau: Introduce yourself, perhaps give us a glimpse into what you do as an artist. You delve into several mediums, give us some insight into your art, what motivates you and what are your goals.

Jonathan O’Farrell: Hi, my name is Jonathan O’Farrell. My family background, if I think about it has been a curious mix of artists and military, or exploring types. There is, or has been in the past quite a pioneering trait, on both sides of my family. My mother was an artist. I don’t see creative work, poetry and photography as being particularly divorced from my daily reality, or being overly abstract. But ultimately I am happy for those who get to know me well as an artist and person to be the judge of that.
If you ask me as a poet and writer what my core themes are then we are talking about landscape, exploration, weather, seasons, nature, animals. Those, just mentioned, are the iconic actors in my poetry; but deeper still, my writing often alludes to significant influences – relationships, self-conquest, self-knowing, loves and loves lost.

Kerkau: I found myself very taken with your photography. Talk about your process, and what you hope to capture in photos. Do you feel yourself to be a photographer or a writer, or both?

O’Farrell: Okay, good question. I am definitely a photographer, but hey – I don’t currently make any appreciable income from it and am for the most part, utterly unknown. But I am damned if that’s going to stop me. You see my photography is a direct extension of much of what I do daily to support myself and others, working on the land, with trees, trying to keep myself healthy and sane. As for process, let me into just one aspect. I don’t have as good eyesight as some folk. So imagine I am walking quickly through the forest (and I do, I have long legs!). I’m striding along the way, full tilt, and then I stop! Say out of the side of my eye I have just glimpsed a vista, a stone, a shadow, or insect. I will stop, back up if need be and then approach my position, for the photo. If it takes me 20 minutes to circle a fire ravaged old Chestnut, wait for the sun to arc some more overhead I will. Sometimes I will almost stop breathing, it’s, almost, meditative how I am bought together with my subject. I just feel, sense first, then capture the photo. At least that’s my nature photography, a goodly bulk of what I do. But urban, historical and streetscapes is a developing practice for me.

Kerkau: I was very interested in your concept of the ethereal dream state. Can you explain how it is important to you to find stillness and how that impacts you as a writer?

O’Farrell: In its most obvious form a creative needs time and space to create. As for the bulk of my poems they come in the middle of the night or very early morning. They come out dreams, to an extent, or at least that half-wake state thereafter. They come to me with maybe as little as a few words, at the title, or line. In that time it takes to awaken, that is the transition space that I use to let more be channeled. At tops most poems are written in 30 to 60 minutes, the whole process. If I ever do post-edit its light. I did take maybe two and a half hours on one poem recently, but that utilized three languages, English, Low German and Anglo Saxon and spans 1,100 years of ancestral heritage – so you’ll have to cut me a little slack on that.

Kerkau: You seem to have a great deal of freedom, which is essential for an artist. Are you tied to a vocation, or are you a professional artist? If you have a vocation outside of writing/photography, what is it and how do you balance both?

O’Farrell: I am an escapee. I jettisoned much of that which comes with wage slavery last year. So, what do I do and how have I been surviving? Bottom line is I am living off savings, very frugally, living and working on the land utilising what vital life skills I have gleaned over 25 or so years, gardening, forestry, conservation, marketing and publicity – almost in spite of having a former existence in transport planning, sat on my arse, in an office for 12 years! Last ten months have seen me work in two animal sanctuaries, eco-tourism and land regeneration projects, as well as collaborating with a fellow photographer and environmental artist in Portugal, Caterina Costa Cabral. You will find me, so to speak, semi-nomading between Portugal, France, with forays into Germany and Belgium etcetera.

Kerkau: I am interested in finding out more about your photography and writing. Where does one find more of your work and to what degree do you utilize social media to find an audience?

O’Farrell: For now find your way to Jonathan O’Farrell on Patreon, it’s my go to site. I utilize other subsidiary channels like WordPress, therein Misterkaki has a little residence. Also I like to give a big shout out to Jeff Brown, the Canadian writer. I worked with Jeff and many others on his online writing course ‘Writing your way home’ and thus I am still involved in a wonderfully supportive Alumni Facebook group. By the way you can find me on Facebook, there are not all that many Jonathan O’Farrells!

Kerkau: I feel that all writers are beholden to someone. For me it was Ginsberg, he was a catalyst for my evolution as a writer early on. What writers are you beholden to?

O’Farrell: Ian Dury, soul/punk/funk wordsmith and songwriter. The chap had severe disabilities, but yet a big inspiration. More conventionally, in literary terms the German poet Rainer Maria Rilke is, I have to say, a fair influence in the genre of poems I might call ‘love letters in transit’.

Kerkau: I found you to be very engaging and intelligent. What is your background in terms of classical education, and how has that impacted you?

O’Farrell: Classical education, he, he, that makes me think – and smile. In short I was semi incarcerated in a series of boarding schools, like my mate Ian D., from 7 to 18 – I could tell a tale or two! I only got mediocre results at school, but did like the humanities and French. I wanted to run away to sea to be a ship’s radio officer, but maths was crap. Art was a love, but it meant I could not take my chemistry studies further – probably just as well, or I’D have blown the gaff sky high! Mature student me, in my late 30s, University of Derby, Tourism and Geography, (Bachelor of Arts, First) and proud of that, as kudos to all mid life learners, with little kids, a job and all.

Kerkau: I have always been fascinated with the concept of home. Thomas Wolfe was an early influence on me. Henry Miller seemed to toil with this issue. Where is home for you, and are you a person looking for his place in the universe?

O’Farrell: Ask me that question when I get there! For now, as we record this I am homeless. Well, not strictly true, I own a house near Leicester in middle England, but I do not live there now, but the kids do, when they are not gadding about at university, or down the boyfriends. Good question though, you’ve just prompted me to finish my slightly travel grubby pocket edition of ‘ WHERE I LIVED AND WHAT I LIVED FOR’
By Henry David Thoreau – respect to that man!

Kerkau: Who are you at the end of the day? Where are you going? Are you at peace with the world around you?

O’Farrell: I am a would-be worshipful lover, of myself, and any other significant others who are brave enough to be in my inner circle, or tribe. Going, well I have to head back down south into the wilds of eastern France in a little while to do a spot of farm work in exchange for storage of a fair chunk of my gear, for up to 6 months in a very rustic barn. After that who knows, probably back to the Mountains of the Stars – Serra de Estrela, central Portugal, where you can drink and bathe in cold, cold, clear waters.
I think the above answers the last question – universe bring it on!

Kerkau: Lastly, do you have a choice doing what you do? What have you sacrificed for your art?

O’Farrell: Yes, I have I have, in theory a choice. But I am very innerly directed in my soul’s vision, so, is that actually a choice, or the unextinguishable light of my given vocation? I have sacrificed a lot, if you think of it conventionally. It is in spite of all the very wonderful people I meet and collaborate with (and may there be more) a solitary life – but there ain’t nothing wrong with that!

Jonathan O’Farrell Patreon

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