The star quarterback is now selling
shitty insurance to his loyal subjects.
He’ll tell you, “You can lose anything in the
world and we’ll give you something we
think is equal in worth. If you’re a good person
you’ll lose everything really quickly. Then you’ll
really rack up the money.”
The sweetest and prettiest girl of my class
is now married to the insurance selling jock.
She’ll tell you, “Yes. Everything turns out
as cliché and expected and boring as you
ever thought it would.”
They recently rode off from the nice wedding,
to a romantic honeymoon, in a new car that
the people of this town clamor to so they
can put their lips against the wheels…
And it was all payed for by privilege.
And me…. I’m at a piano, buried under a
shivering mountain of books. Tom Waits in my
left hand, Nick Cave in my right. Kurt Cobain’s
suicide note stuck repeating –
words dripping from my lips like melting wax
quarter notes. I was the child that was isolated,
dressed in a perception filter…
You all saw me, but never did because you
just didn’t want to.
And while you were kissing the feet of petty gods,
leaving me alienated on the edge
of a small shit society…
I still loved everyone too fuckin much.
But I am not what I was then.
I’ll come and tell you, “You’re passing over
your chances to have anything of worth,
and you’re so willing to protect everything
that means nothing. What is worth insuring
cannot be insured. You’ll only ever receive
such small and diminishing dispensations;
and if you have anything real in you, those
repayments won’t mean a damn thing.”
I’ll tell you, “Things will only really end up how
you determine them to be or how you decide
to let them become.”
And still, after all this time, you’re scared to
hear me. To even look my way.
So when my foot sets down
on the outskirts of town, the roadway
shakes enough to topple your golden calf.
From there I take back everything you tried
to deprive me of – I drink it all up
like Daniel Day-Lewis with a really long straw.
Every single one of you shudders and coughs, and
“That’s right. You know who I am.”
Nathan McCool is a member of Blood Into Ink and the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective. You can find the haint, dusk, and sizzling of his concrete snares on his blog, Mist of Melancholia.
I huff and puff and walk out. Stamping to my car I sit behind the wheel and curse him. I go to find gas station pizza, the two pack of Hostess’ vanilla cupcakes, annnnd possibly a pint of ice cream that claims to be over loaded with fixins just to try and calm myself. I hate it when I walk in on him with other women. I mean I do disappear, no phone calls, and sparse emails with a few shallow lines of poetry to let him know I’m still breathing, but fuck put a sign on the door. And don’t think of me when you’re with her cuz that’s just weird. Even though many times I’ve done it, even closed my eyes to seal the deal, but that doesn’t matter. I tried to picture him beneath me, so vulnerable so fragile. And completely mine because I’ve straddled him and lassoed his thoughts so he’d never have to say he loved me out loud. But when I heard it echo through my brain I finished him off and left without saying goodbye. It was entirely too real. And we’d only seen each other a good 5 times outside of professional walls. Or maybe that was the first time, who’s keepin track these days. I could only think of how large I’d felt and how such a manly man could shrink so small beneath me. Not his cock of course, that grew. What kind of woman would I feel like if it didn’t. Then there’s erectile dysfunctions and that makes me feel a kinda shitty too. So anyways he was rock hard and I was wet because it was my first time straddling him. I leaned in and placed my forehead on his after telling him I could read his mind. But he already knew and had I love you at the forefront, just behind his skull where all the executive stuff is supposed to happen. So when I connected my head to his I felt entirely too much power. A man’s life isn’t mine to hold.
Daffni Gingerich says simply that she “is a writer.” You can read more of her mesmerizing prose at Daffinblog.
The waters are like a widow’s hair, black and lustrous
with lost foam of tears salted to rime, the ocean weeps
for her husband sky, now blackened with the rot of
night, for it is only when his sun is a coin in the sky
that mourning waters light with warmth, each day
the seas cry for sky’s death, and hang the moon up
as a gravestone resplendent for his yellow eye.
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
Running on midnight, oil
peels ‘neath my flit feet—
heel to toe, heel to toe; but
toil and tarry with nary a mile made distant.
Sluts like me are always found
out, cos spouses see the webs of deceit
weaved with widow-like legs wide open—
not as stupid as we
We do pretend our husbands’ best friends, or
brothers-in-law, or bosses all have hearts
appended to their throbbing dicks.
‘And that dick’s heart beats only for me.’
Slut found out
living in a small town,
sucking on spoils—
I’m gonna fucking die here,
I’ve defiled my own name.
© Kindra M. Austin
Kindra M. Austin is an indie author (her books can be found here), a founding member of Indie Blu(e), and a writer/managing editor at Sudden Denouement, Blood Into Ink, and Whisper and the Roar. A Sagittarius Valkyrie from the state of Michigan, she likes craft beer, and classic big block muscle cars. You can find her filing through the souls of the slain at poems and paragraphs.
“And I wanted to believe in fate —
I wanted to believe in us.”
You said there was no such thing as beginnings and endings. Nothing came into existence or disappeared like a puff of smoke. Matter changed shape, becoming something new — never beginning, never ending. Always changing and evolving. Like ice to water. Water into vapor. Vapor into rain. You said the same thing about us. You and I didn’t become we. Somehow, we always were. I thought it was romantic. That you could think fate brought us together.
And I wanted to believe in fate — I wanted to believe in us. I did. But then everything changed. Just like you said. How could we have been destined — as if we were always one — if we could be pulled apart so soon? Was it some cosmic lesson we both needed to learn? Or was it just you? Playing me for a fool. We were like a storm, you and I. Blowing in from the sea and ravaging the coastline before fizzling out into nothing. It may still be an evolution of change, but if that’s not a beginning and ending, then I don’t know what is.
[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.]
The path’s wet with rain and trodden blossom.
Crushed petals in hot hot pink looked funny
In the downpour. A box of plums, deep red
Were left on a stranger’s garden wall. Odd,
I thought were they forgotten fruit or just
A simple spring gift for the passer-by.
They had not gone bad yet. Either was fine
For a Good Friday walk in the grey rain.
I pondered to take them. But I feared it,
The trembling lip of a child, whose favourite
Plum tart, fresh pastry lined with marzipan
And segments like jewels in their almond bed
Could not be. I could not steal the joy
Those purple fruits would surely soon deploy.
[ 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.]
and the coliseum
crumbled in the wake
of her long -pent
in her tears
she relinquished the burden
\rough-hewn marble headstone\
in the dammed ducts
of all the sisters,
daughters and mothers
who carried on
\dutiful and diligent\
when by all rights
bequeathed by Minerva
hard fought battle earned
they yearned to carry on
\keening and lamenting\
in disharmonious distress.
and Pompeii, lost
no longer, rises
from Vesuvian ashes
in riotous inferno
fueled of righteous
in her uproar
she releases the ghosts
\literary, literal and liturgical\
who, catlike, stole
tongue and very breath
of women on whose backs
\on their backs\
stripped and striped
cornerstones were planted
when by virtue
of their labors
they should be upright
\ranting and raving\
from birth to birthing
unleashed in the tempest
for whose perfidy
she took the fall
\oh! how far she fell\
and they dance
samba with the mamba
celebration of cerebration
until the snake is spent
and woven, powerless
among her seething locks.
Aurora Phoenix is a wordsmithing oxymoron. Staid suburbanite cloaks a badass warrior wielding weapon grade phrases. Read more of her confabulations at Insights from “Inside.”