You’ll Look Back

Nicole Lyons over at thelithiumchronicles’ “You’ll Look Back,” speaks of the inequities of break ups with beautiful ferocity.

Nicole Lyons

It was easy for you,
to pack up everything
and shove it
between our memories,
and anything good,
I used to be.
It was nothing for you,
to take and leave
without looking back.
But I am done pacing
pathways down hallways
in this empty shell
you left behind,
and I swear to God,
you’ll look back
when the smoke hits
the air and the flames
lick your heels.

© Nicole Lyons 2016

Art Cred – Rimel Neffati

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Another Scrapped Suicide Note/Nathan McCool

Nathan McCool just sidekicked me in the solar plexus with his poem “Another Scrapped Suicide Note.” Damn!

Blood Into Ink

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Jesus isn’t waiting for me anywhere. I nailed him

to a tree. A long time ago. And hell fires are extinct to me now. I can no more believe 

in them than I can the idea that mercy was

coming for me and just lost its way. 

I write this in a field – Gaia’s emerald hair is

what leaves this paper water damaged.

I am not crying now or even fighting tears,

for once.

If you could see me now you’d know 

that I’m smiling. Like I never have before.

I do not know if we really take anything with us 

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Family Values- 1Wise-Woman

1Wise-Woman at bloodintoinkpressblog’s “Family Values” is a searing indictment of family violence and suffering, caused by the roles we can’t seem to break from.

Blood Into Ink

The family values three squares at the table
A nightly ritual force fed to the masses
To bring us together in peace and harmony
Share the day around our daily bread
Bred from chaos
A show more riveting than any on tv
Girl watches from a different place at the table
As plates fly
Shattered shards pierce her eye
She doesn’t cry
Just shrinks down in the chair
Lowering her head
There’s work to be done on the gravy river
A mountain of potatoes set for excavation

In wild cacophony Man explodes
Or is that the chair hitting the floor
Or the cries of Boy as Man gets bigger
And more dinnerware flies
Paper and plastic would be a safer choice
Girl wonders why
Invisible Woman didn’t think of that
There must not be any coupons in this weeks flyer
While Invisible Woman struggles to decide
Whether to clean up…

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Bastardizing Feminism

Aurora Phoenix’s “Bastardizing Feminism” is a brilliant one-two punch to the face of ignorance!

Insights from "Inside"

when you call me

feminist

with that sneer

that mocks blue-black

from deadened eyes

have you consulted Webster

as you disparage

inexactly?

is it equality

that prompts

your jaw tightening

snarling disdain?

what fear you

if I stood

shawty

at your side?

when you label me

feminist

in that tone

befit for excrement

you trod upon

now befouling your nose

did you crack open Oxford

before you hurl

erroneous aspersions?

is it not right

in your eyes

smeared with sycophantic

self-adulation

that I dare believe

I am deserving

of status

non-secondary?

when you brand me

feminist

as you would

a wandering cow

to which you lay claim,

who irritates

with wayward ways,

do you peruse American Heritage

as you slander

from spittle-foamed lips?

is it my audacity

to advocate

earnest and articulate

on behalf of myself

and sisters in subjugation

that tightens your colon

as you clench

your misbegotten gains?

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Are You Fucking New Here?- A Weyward Sisters Collaboration

What a collaboration!! The Weyward Sisters’ “Are You Fucking New Here?” At Sudden Denouement is beautifully fierce!

Sudden Denouement Collective

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…

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Mother’s Blood – Introducing Mitch Green

A new writer at Sudden Denouement, Mitch Green “Mother’s Blood.” This is a wonderful introduction!

Sudden Denouement Collective

Forever sorry, cut at the
bleach ghost in strokes.
Prove her out to be the
head over heels, smoke
em if you got em type.

Worming mists of steel,
sacrificial, superficial.

They warned you about
this one. They warned you,
stubborn listener.

They’ll fish you
out in pieces.

Tell me it to be fiction,
cause on the third floor
a girl fits a cage, made
of roses, thorns, and her
mother’s blood.

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

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The Color of Beach Sand- Kindra M. Austin

So familiar the pain of loss. “The Color of Beach Sand” by Kindra Austin at Sudden Denouement.

Sudden Denouement Collective

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.

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Painted Fingernails- Jimmi Campkin

A fantastic vignette on human connection and it’s ephemeral nature at Sudden Denouement, by Jimmi Campkin “Painted Fingernails”

Sudden Denouement Collective

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…

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Walk away

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Maybe he was conditioned to walk away

Perhaps he sensed its coming

Lowering himself into the blocks

When she said it was over

That was the starter pistol’s report

Off he went

 

Maybe he witnessed the maternal bond

Who was he to try and fuck with that?

As much as he could give

He felt he’d be a little short

It was something he couldn’t deny us

Arms limp at his sides, he walked away

 

I like to imagine that he argued

That he cried in attempts to stay whole

That he held us in his arms

Tears streaking down his face

The look of a broken man

His face a setting sun melting into the ocean

 

I like to imagine that he called constantly

Trying to make amends to bridge the distance

That we were at the forefront of his mind

That he showed up uninvited

Diapers under one arm

A teddy bear under the other

 

I have a half-sister I’ve never met

That he walked away from first

Maybe she was the hardest

When my mom pointed at the door

It was like Pavlov ringing a bell

Without thought he found himself alone

 

I was left with a gaping hole in my chest

A severed, invisible umbilical

Trailing out behind me

The weight of a logging chain

Leaving a trail of black bile

For most of my life

 

My father reentered my life a few years later

Reaffirming a bond I always knew I needed

A puzzle piece fitting my chest hole perfectly

I no longer dragged that logging chain

Though I no longer envied other children

I had gained a friend in him more than a father

 

I think he felt that he gave up that right

That it would be a waste of time anyway

When so much joy was had just being friends

And when life was a storm he was a safe port

Two years ago a storm washed away that port

I’m often come undone at the thought of this

 

Looking at my two-year-old son

I imagine the hole in his chest

That I can only fill with stories

Of his quirky, loving grandfather

That he’ll have no memory of

And have to trust my recollection of him

 

At the same time I long for that lost period

The early years I didn’t have my father

I look at my son

And I couldn’t imagine walking away

I would level a city, sell my soul to the devil

To be by his side

 

As a child, brought up catholic

I believed in a heaven and hell

I’ve since stepped away from faith

And I put my belief in Socratic method

Which relies on student-teacher dialogue

I’ve lost my teacher but gained a student

 

Thinking of the loss of my father

My fading youth

My son’s long journey ahead

I hope I’m wrong about heaven

I hope I’m wrong

When I have no choice but to…walk away

hours 

Pics on my phone don’t cut it and this poem, Hours by Samantha Lucero, makes me miss photo albums deeply.

samantha lucero

becoming empty; the shape deflates, the air comes out like water.

It starts to breathe it’s own small breath in the shape of a person,

someday a man, a woman, sometimes swollen, sometimes

stiff, stark, or bleeding.

Seeing those photos one day,

your nose has memorized leather and tobacco flower.

for her, it’s dr.pepper, Disney on ice

the cotty musk she never knew she had just inside the pi of bone.

samantha lucero 2017 ©

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