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.]

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.]

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.

 

In Blues and Golds – Nicole Lyons (Lithium Chronicles)

God, I am selfish.
I am a selfish lover,
and a selfish friend,
and I am a selfish saint.
But am I selfish on Sunday
when I break my bread
and remember that girl
and her tingles,
and every prayer I whispered,
when I was running
from scared into terrified?
I was unselfish when
I was terrified in that tunnel,
and I was high on those vibes
when we met.
The electric terror and tiptoes,
the sweet sound of bored teenagers
breaking trust and all the rules.
We smoked her stepfather’s cigarettes
and drank my mother’s wine,
and we spray-painted our names
inside each other’s secrets
in golds and blues across dirty metal,
and then she laid me down.
I was unselfish and terrified
that time I said yes
when I meant to say no,
but her fingers were quick
when my resistance was weak,
and I was two seconds to thirteen
and a lifetime from knowing better.
And now I can’t help but feel sorry
when I remember her then,
under those flickering lights
a block away from home,
and the way we kissed.
That kiss that stormed the skies.
That kiss that shook the plains.
That kiss that had her speaking
of tingles and first love,
and body rocks.
That kiss and those tingles,
on that body from a lifetime ago,
are now ravaged to bits
in a home somewhere,
eaten by the degenerate mouths
of degenerative diseases,
and here I am,
still selfish and terrified,
at breakfast on Sunday,
saying a prayer and wondering
if the tingles her body is wracked
and wrecked with now
can come close to the ones I gave her
in blues and golds, way back then.


 

[ Nicole Lyons is a writer/editor for Sudden Denouement. She is a driving force in SD with a voice that resonates with people all over the world. We are honored to have her as a member of our family. She is the creator of The Lithium Chronicles, as well as writing for other sites such as The Feminine Collective. Her first book Hush is an inspired collection of poetry. Most importantly, she is a valued friend and mentor –  Jasper Kerkau. ]

Cat Nap

by Lois Linkens and Christine Ray

catnap

 

sleep stalks me, finds me an easy target

slinks in to drag me under, into the depths
where unknown dangers lurk in my unconscious
what murkiness lies behind my drooping lashes,
what shadows hide between each whistling breath?
what sharpness snuggles buried
among the feathers in my pillow,
what traps will soon ensnare
and dangle me, just feet from death?

they hook me, by the ankle
and suspend me from the tree of dreams,
around which serpents rattle, tigers prowl,
insects scuttle, poisonous, foul.
blood rushing to my head
cheeks flushed
heart thundering
as i dangle helpless

great cats bat their armored paws
at my flailing hair
like beggars round a campfire.
their claws pull and snag –
draw drops of blood
that quench night blooming jasmine
waiting below

i wake with a start. temples throb and pulse,
the bed is dry as my parched throat, blankets cold.
perhaps a girl
can be herself without the hair of fairytales.

 

 

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 we ask you to take a second to look at more of her wonderful work, lois e.linkens

Christine Ray writes for Brave and Reckless and is a member of Sudden Denouement.  She is also curator at Blood Into Ink and barista at Go Dog Go Cafe.  She is an aspiring badass.

 

I Survived the Storm – Jasper Kerkau

Pickford_CCP_FIGX_WFP-PIC161

I Survived the Storm – Jasper Kerkau

I survived the storm. Watched everything explode and evaporate in the slow waters of time, billowing out of the dirty earth, inching up sidewalks, devouring curbs, and quiet lives. It all goes away so quickly, the boring conversations, the Sunday afternoons, and fried chicken, the little lives of misery, heaped into the darkness, left silent in dusty rooms, soaked and miserable. Civility and comfort are all so fleeting. I shed the rain, the moon, the failures and regrets, bury heart and words under the pillow. I give them their leisure, and I take a million crosses and deformed shrines, puked up the unnatural pleasures and, alas, have all the pain.
I survived the storm. Molding my stars, peeling off the television and cycles of vomit and bile filtering through every fiber of my being. It is theirs; it is not mine. I will run in circles for eternity, eat fire, and resign myself to the arms of a beautiful girl with a big heart. I stuff mediocrity and resentment in empty potato chip bags and give back to the earth, hoping it will be recycled the next time around. A one-thousand-year event. A speck in time. A sneeze and cough on the big toe of forever. I will eat the water out of hand, starve no more. Drive away dark clouds and find the golden rainbows in my heart. Everything will be okay this time. The sun will come out, and it will all go away.

[Jasper Kerkau is co-creator, editor, and writer for Sudden Denouement, as well as the creator of The Writings of Jasper Kerkau.]