There’s a cardboard box

On a metal shelf

Outside my office

Ordinary in every way

The box is not mine

It’s contents no concern

In this place

Where I traded sticky floors

For asbestos walls

It is just a box

Written in black sharpie

Four simple digits

The number 4101

However, it is a burdock

My mind a shaggy sweater

On my days off

I have be found mouthing the number




I was unaware I mouthed the number

Until someone pointed it out

Asking, what it was that I was saying

I had no idea

The number was a virus

My head the empty horse it hides in

Creeping out of my mouth

To lay siege to my home life

I started paying attention

But at the moment I recognized

That I was about to almost say it

It scurried back to the recesses

I told my family to watch

To try and discern what I was saying

A number starting with four, they agreed

This still made no sense to me

Then, walking into my office

I saw it

The unassuming little box

I’d never given it more

Than a wayward glance

It made me wonder

Just how many times

I mouthed






Murder in the thirst- Olde Punk

Murder in the thirst by Olde Punk. You down with O.P.P. (Olde Punk Poetry)? Yeah, you know me!

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

Murder in the thirst

There is always the murmuring first

Anticipation is just the worst

Do you not think?

No do not speak

Why we brave the waste

There is ever aught but dust

And folly, ever the tides rush

Close to our feet

I’m trapped in the past

And I know you are the last

Of the crimson knights of defeat

Feel my heart beat

In time with the rhythm of demise

I despise and deplore

Blood on the floor and all over

Your precious face

Oh angel of disgrace

Never are you more beautiful

Than with the fear of death

Perfuming your breath

And heavy with the knowledge

Of my damned divine curse

Shadow clouds over the moon

As dawn and dusk meet

Clasping hands over the finality

I embrace you lovingly

The taste of your blood on my tongue

I listen to the dearest murmur

That escapes…

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I’m enthusiastically solipsistic

I’m quick to say, “Sorry, I missed it.”

I’m an introverted panenhenic mystic

I’m twisted, conflicted, unscripted

I’m an uncommitted, sick kid, as predicted

I’ve been called a dipshit

Cuz I don’t buy the hip shit

My mind just flips shit

Into a guilt trip

For not exercising self-censorship

My brain has a hair trigger, pistol grip

100 road trips with only 1 roach clip

I care too much about the fellowship

Of man

But goddamn

Let’s devise a plan

To save our land, air and water

I know we can, if we care about sons and


I’m a panster not a plotter

Life’s my alma mater

I matriculated from The Illustrated Man

As anticipated it integrated a sense of

Who I am

It originated my articulated defense of

Where I stand

A denigrated, insulated, and incensed

Peter Pan

Second star to the right and straight on till

Morning to get to Neverland

I don’t do drugs cuz I’m already a downer

I look where I live and feel like an


I’m about to get up

Time to wrap this shit up

Here…pass around this tip cup

I know I’m one sick pup

I never wanted to grow up

I’m just happy to show up

I am a F*cking Writer!- Jasper Kerkau

Jasper Kerkau at Sudden Denouement nails it with his poem, I am a F*cking Writer!

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

I am a writer!

I sit on the left-hand of the gods and have a special dispensation to decode the secret, universal rhythms, find patterns in the whispers which are inaudible to profane ears. My role is that of an observer; a quiet, meditative force who has a holy charge to record the divine misery, the blind mysteries, the eek-and-turn everyday struggle of life, seen through the eyes of one who has divested himself of all worldly goods.

Who are you?

I am a fucking writer! I am convicted, given over to the great purpose of wresting the truth away from the earth, buried under layers of silt and sediment, caught up in the swirl of the waters that lean to the great gravitational forces as the world mercilessly spins in the great unknown. The curse is the burden, the pulling back the veil, looking into the languid eyes affixed…

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Samantha Lucero hit dangerously close to home with this piece. It’ll be two years gone by, tomorrow.

samantha lucero

my scent, not his scent,
but by some changeling blood
could spread the same smile
on halloween. on christmas
waking up in blankets
it didn’t fall asleep in.

there’s bricks that hold down a red
bottlebrush flower from 1994.
she called you honeysuckle,
and thought rats had no bones.

i remember
my small hand in his
big glove, rough inside
like sand paper. old yellow leather in
a white truck stuck together
with luck, cigarettes in a soft pack,
right in your shirt pocket, next to the
heart in my hand, in your glove
in a warm cup of coffee,

i could live on that smell and skip
meals for the month of
just the memory of it,
and the dregs of
california pain.

i could armor myself in you.
live in your flannel and die.
carve a valknut in my chest
over the hole where no light

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vogue- Lois E. Linkens

Lois E. Linkins’, “vogue,” is simply brilliant.

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

pages, pages, pages
dripping in incongruity;
train tracks, and European travel nudging
the green hills of England.
renovations, renovations
– ‘i am so, so pleased.’ 
my splendid white house sings virtue. 
you must be one way, just this way
madam, see
these women
with Betty bangs and bobs,
who write about the Mona Lisa
and dream of being her,
there is a lotion for that loathing,
it pays for the print.

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.

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Vagabond – Mitch Green

“Vagabond,” by Mitch Green, is as unsettling as it is beautiful.

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

With an omen in an
open dress, I am stranded
south of home with her
grey weight now purple;
flushed elusive.

You can see it,
in the whites of her eyes.
The propaganda bowl,
colorless and vain;
a vagabond carved out
of frame.

Cursing curses
with reading wrists,
she is now the
maker of noise.

Aloud and allowed.

{Mitch Green founded Rad Press Publishing in September of 2016. He is an avid artist in visual design and literature. Published in various literary journals and magazines: The Literary Yard. The Penmen Review. Vimfire Magazine – Mitch aims to seize the narrow line between all artistic mediums.

A few of his known poetic titles are: “Flesh Phoenix” “Monsters” “The Wolves Howled”.

Offering his hand in graphic direction – his book design portfolio can be found here.

Follow Mitch and Rad Press Publishing on Instagram.}

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Cosmic Things

“Cosmic Things,” by Nicole Lyons, is a lamentation on all that glitters is not gold. Beautiful.

The Lithium Chronicles

I have fallen in love with far too many
beautiful things – cosmic things – like
the way the sun shines on dying stars,
and how it eclipses the wishes of forgotten souls.
I have fallen in love with the wildest beasts,
the ones that howl beneath full blue moons,
bursting as they wait to watch you
unbuckle my wishes from Orion’s Belt.
I have fallen in love with the velvety touch
of the milkiest ways, and I dread the day when
I wake up and am left with nothing
but the tragic crash of a love born only in this world.

©Nicole Lyons 2018

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Some sunshine

“…there’s grave dirt on my hands…and I ponder how many dead…are in the grit under my nails…” ramjetpoetry’s “Some sunshine,” is spellbinding!

RamJet Poetry

some sunshine

dumb, drunk and unhappy

shuffling feet in a barnstorm

clapping nostalgia on the back

the knives’ out just for show

if this wasn’t love, I’d label it scorn

I am a collection of lines

in old and forgotten songs

dusty hymns sung to the low

ultraviolet dope down dawg

collared flea-bitten mongrel

of a steed bent on bad knees

weak, in need of a peek

at anything that can bring

some sunshine

Fostered gasoline children

foment rebellion from our nether

regions apart by river and wall

side by side on the map

to go where you need to go

we all need a guide

but take your time

choosing your ride

always remember:

it is not the destination but the journey

that takes life from you

pantomime the beat of carotid drug

cultures entwining in evening

sojourn, dinner’s on the table

it is getting cold

I smell smoke and realize

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She Shifter

Staggeringly visceral! Daffniblog’s “She Shifter,” pulls no punches!


The sand is everywhere and the waves make my ass shift this way and that. It’s no use trying to stay in one place, even though I would like roots. And when the sadness takes over I beg him to sooth me, cuz no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to sooth myself. The tears come in waves and the melancholy and the manic states which are mostly just me trying to get rid of the first two. The fear of getting pregnant plagues me, but these human needs are never satisfied and neither are these wounds. They leak and pus without cease. The more gauze I add, the weepier they become. Blood stains and trails of tears mark the womb I’ve been hiding in. The world fades and as their lives drift on loneliness becomes me. I open my mouth wide and stick my fingers in bile…

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