Wistful Poison

Wistful Poison by Oldepunk. “I’d rather fallout shelter this cold ambition” Another soul-churning-masterpiece by Oldepunk!

RamJet Poetry

wistful poison

I obfuscate my temptation

by metaphor

poisoning the flowers

I love, and feed the weeds

choking at the root of the square

of the problems with memento mori

I don’t feel like sunshine today

so pull the curtain and fade

to black ensemble choirs’ aria

a trembling hand to hold

onto means nothings were tainted

with absinthe and woe

charlatan payday, and hey

you would to if anyone were

that dumb

deaf to the notion I bespoke

upon the trodden

it’s a chemical reaction

that playing out in this

hospice bed and they won’t let you

die, it hurts the profit margin

I color outside the lines

standing in the rain for another

life I didn’t want to have

more time with myself, I’d

rather fallout shelter

this cold ambition and seeking

solace I located solitude

at your mom’s old beach house

she really wanted to know

what the fuck…

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The singularity wasn’t the moment man melded with technology and became connected to the consciousness of every other human being set up with an implanted nic (network interface controller) card. No. Nor was it a case of the 100th monkey phenomenon, as many had suggested or hoped. The singularity was much more insidious and it didn’t happen at once, but built to a deafening crescendo. The edge of the rain cloud moves in and a single drop hits the driveway. This single drop was Laurence Manning’s, “The Men Who Awoke.” The storyline very familiar to us now. People connected to machines that have their external senses replaced with electrical impulses. Yes…I know. Then this concept started popping up more and more in various science fiction pieces. The rain had arrived. Many attribute the Wachowski’s, “The Matrix,” as being the defining moment, while others look to the invention of the technology that makes the concept a nearing reality. Every one of them drew stone-cold silent March, 15th, 2019. That particular Friday, thousands upon thousands of aspiring authors across the world, having made appointments with literary agents, sat eagerly in waiting rooms. Their manuscripts on their laps, fingers drumming nervously. The administrative assistant signaling for them to enter an office where their dreams were meant to come true. Thousands upon thousands of literary agents, having read the 1st drafts of the writer’s books, beamed with the thought of the money the book would make. It went even so far that competing publishing houses rushed the first edition to press, only to find that the same book, letter for letter, had been released. The first instinct was to cry foul and sue the “authors” as conspirators, trying to bilk the publishers out of money by simultaneously submitting the same manuscript. However, after investigating, it was found that earlier drafts showed variances in process, but as the manuscript neared submission, they all just suddenly converged…right down to punctuation choices. The phenomenon hit the internet first, then network news. The world seemed motionless as the story blossomed. Many people claiming they had the same idea for a book, but never pursued it. Religious groups came up with their own take on it, while philosophers and psychologists tried plying their own craft on the situation. However, it was a group of aspiring sci-fi authors, who met at a local YMCA, Tuesdays and Thursdays, that came up with the hypothesis that picked up support, after being published on a reddit thread. It was simple. We are all existing, at this very moment, in a virtual reality system, and the rainstorm, which was now deafening, was the collective rejecting of the input. The question then became, who was behind the control panel and how will they respond to the rejection? No one could answer the first question, but quickly everyone agreed on the response. Reboot. Instead of the Big Bang we had come to think of it as the Big Reboot. Needless to say there were factions forming immediately. Anarchy spread in some areas, while military-like compounds offered safety for others. Transcendental meditation became the leading form of spirituality. The hippie communes they formed were quickly consumed by the militants for their resources. 

Anyway, I’m writing this in hopes we’re all wrong and someone in the future can learn from it. If everyone is right, then I’m just wasting my time, as the reboot will erase all record o———————————

Hope for the Best


She went to the store with a hope-filled heart. Each step her optimism grew. She smiled and nodded to people she didn’t know on her way to aisle 12. There she spent the better part of fifteen minutes looking for just the right card. A card for the birthday of a beautiful young lady, the vision of which her minds eye kept from years ago. Only positivity. With the perfect card found, she made her way to the bouquets of flowers. She wanted to remind her of the beauty in the world. The natural, pure, unadulterated world. She sat in her car, after checking out, and penned a note in the card through tear-filled eyes. Still smiling all the same. She drove the few short blocks to her house, knowing nobody would be awake at that early hour and simply propped the card and flowers against the front door. She hopped into the car and drove home. Walking in I could tell that she had been crying, but before I could ask why…she hugged me, stronger and longer than she had in a while. Smiling, she asked how the baby was, and I smiled back and said, “Fine.”  She picked her up and held her tightly in her arms. Her eyes welled but her beautiful smile never wavered. 

“It’s gonna be okay, baby girl,” she whispered. 

[My wife and I have custody of her niece’s 6-month-old daughter, while her niece deals with her demons. On the surface we wish her niece and the father of this beautiful little girl will get their shit together, as this perfect bundle-of-joy deserves to have her family. But, on a much deeper level, we are falling in love with her. I know how much my wife has wanted a little girl, us having two boys, and see the glee with which she dresses her up in cute little girlie outfits. So, I’m afraid, that my fear of losing this little girl, of seeing the loss on my wife’s face, that I’m becoming a wretched person with each passing day…hoping the demons never lose their grip.]

of stakes and higher.

Of Stakes And Higher by Ra’ahe Khayat. This is visceral and beautiful and deeply unsettling. Wonderful.

Fallen Alone

and if you should,
then you must-
hold on to these careless affairs
that we keep throwing
between us on the bed-sheets
like discarded cards
in a poker game;


i can
no longer brace this corpse
my skin has molded itself around
without gambling
my bones away.

••ra’ahe khayat

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Honey and Monkeys and Bears and Dust

Honey and Monkeys and Bears and Dust by S. K. Nicholas. Man…all I keep thinking is how this piece should be the new definition of love. Outstanding!

Author S. K. Nicholas


That scent of hers as she skips around it’s like donuts and fields of corn that sway in the breeze beneath a sky of milk white teeth and when she closes her eyes she becomes the corn and how she sways and how the sun becomes her and even though she’s broken and sometimes dead and that inked heart of hers so easily comes apart at the seams the world can’t help but move around her and each and every insect is drawn to her music and so am I but try as I might she avoids my gaze and I’m listening to Joanna Newsom and there’s honey and monkeys and bears and dust and when I wipe the tears from my eyes the birds come down from the sky and show me what it is to be a man and when I’m dizzy I catch her scent and get…

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Pink Flamingos- Daffni Gingerich/Daffinblog

Pink Flamingos by Daffni Gingerich at Sudden Denouement. Absolute power corrupts absolutely and the power of this piece is absolutely fantastic!

Sudden Denouement Collective

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…

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When I was young

I played a game

Walking through the city

I’d dance with cars

I was a capote de paseo with

Toro bravos made of steel and glass

The closer to the rear bumper I got

The more points I earned

I was stepping off of curbs

Before the car even passed

Still, as an adult, I’m longing

To feel a candy apple red paint job 

Pass across my fingertips 

At 30 miles per hour