Subpoema: Basilike Pappa & Kindra M. Austin

Marco Busoni Tutt'Art@;

Let’s blush together over the seas and far away, then
‘neath Helios golden.
Taste the salt spray cleaving to your lips
and think kindly of me
even though I love like a knife.

Then excise my heart – I offer you my body
and if I ever regret it, I won’t tell a soul.

 

(image: Pinterest)

Read more of Basilike’s poems and prose at Silent Hour.

 

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Take my heart into deep water

Please check out Basilike’s blog. I dig her style.

Silent Hour

You’d think it would be the fragrance of flowers, the symbolism of doves, or the euphoria of spice, but it was a grill restaurant that made me think of us this morning as I was waiting to cross the street. There was nothing special about it except for the hen that proudly posed as its emblem, presenting the world with a platter of roasted chicken. ‘Here is someone who would offer themselves to be eaten,’ I thought. And then I imagined myself being eaten by you. My body torn by your teeth, my blood dripping from your chin, streaming down the marble falls of your flesh.

Last night the air in my room had been heavy with the carnal scent of our new knowledge. You fell asleep in my bed. But sleep wouldn’t come to me; it stayed away from my clenched teeth. Behind my closed eyelids, tails…

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All in a Day’s Work

Aurora Phoenix on Blood into Ink. I welcome all of you to visit Blood into Ink and read the poignant words of survival. You can also submit to us your own writing on trauma, and surviving.

Blood Into Ink

I am weighing in

on matters of weight

and consequence

I measure my words

for breadth and depth

pour them forth

in tones of equal measure

passionate and restrained.

he hears a waspish

background buzz

drowned under

the squelching

of my sopping pudenda

as he pounds,

pounds and pounds.

I see

his erroneous prerogative

in his delusional

erogenous

interpretation –

conjuring a mirage,

a wet and shimmering

beacon

beckoning his thirst,

begging for repetitive

slaking.

dry as the Sahara

I burn his retinas

with the unrelenting

glare

of my rejecting stare,

recapitulate

assertations of import

steadfastly comport

myself

above (his) sea level

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The Monsters are Due on Vine Street- Samantha Lucero

I think I need a tee shirt that reads: I Fucking ❤ Sam Lucero.

Whisper and the Roar

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of a grin usually on the missing
persons board at truck stops
where famished men would pick up hitch-hiking
girl-children run aways, escaping home
to find themselves, smelling like
violins in the attic
here she is in red-hot-red,
rose-red, blood-red, a portrait streak of
glitter high-heels with no hosiery
ankles with tattoos of talaria wings
and a wink at an invisible camera

she’s such a gem, such a picture
on the side of the road on her back
holding out her upturned palms to catch the diving
heavy rain, collecting it inside of the sinkhole
of her open mouth,
crooked THERE, like a tangled doll.

do you see that glorious photograph
of her alive, when she felt so dead
and here she is getting the flashing
lights she craved, licking the gravel
on sunset boulevard, dead as the moon
only bright because the camera catches
the last expression that her face made…

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Eavesdropping on an Anarchist’s Monologue at the Post Office – Introducing Josh Dale

I’m happy to welcome Josh Dale to Sudden Denouement. He’s got the type of bite I admire. Check him out, and all of the other incredible people who make Sudden Denouement a magnificent force of nature.

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

bishoptimeEavesdropping on an Anarchist’s Monologue at the Post Office

Here you are,
fumbling for change in your early 60’s,
to get the fucking technology to work
Shouldn’t you be in Orlando with a beer gut?

(Copy machine fails to cooperate)

Corporate America, pssh!
I’m minding my own business at the kiosk,
listening to the Republicans taking over shit for the next 30 years.
Are you an anarchist, sir?
Or have you been left behind?
Fucking Americans, wake up!
Mid. Term. Elections. Are. The. Most. Important.
I do want to vote,
will you, honestly, dear sir?

(He’s still fumbling around with an early 00’s copy machine)

I know the woman mailing Christmas
heard your fucking shit and goddamn Democrats.
I did,
and I’m not even trying to, sir.

Will you throw your torch into the pyre
or is that asking too much?
You’ve had your whole life to tear the system…

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Center of Night

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I remember everything, a curse in

center of night,

when cat stares through me, and

clock tick-tocks

witching hour is nigh

I wait cos I remember every scene

unseen with eyes mine, a curse in

center of night

I miss you most

 

(image: Pinterest)