not inside this now- veiled, doomy embrasure or silted over by a cake of ocher wax in a sand-cornered sleeping crate— but somewhere a cordial outstretching, an unblistered self, folded around the sawdust girth of two inline fingers— some memory of chalky heat, the aluminum snap of canned juice babbled down wet furrows, and the hard tilling of fatigue into unseeded black bladders— death is a wet wing, drying between ball peen taps on a half- cut furring strip, where a tack tin props the flat gray radio where the speaker hole gawps through bearded garbles— there is the tongue that clicks in time to this bad chant
Convene a service for the gone grass- pile pier, where it was pinched up by the storm—fisted and scattered like a wad of clipped hair or a novel, briefly fingered baseboard fluff— disordered onto a pool of smudgy glass, swelling elastic in the St. John's aberrant artery. There is a laugh, and understand that, here, laughter doesn't slake from a fluoridated supply; it smacks sulfuric, and I swallow the hard-boiled fullness of my own throat at the wry manufacture threaded into the sum of our endings. *** I discarded the date—the date when I bartered my joyride lips for the slurry of a drainage trough. It was in a vestibule between funerals, pressed through a corridor that preceeded my decorous walk over the slick threshold of the first—before my wrong, hamstrung left-turn out the scorched nare of the nearest. *** So I am cloud hided, indigo flogged—loss is lead poisoning, incurable, it accumulates in the bones and teeth. *** After a midnight Cesarean, will I hatch— become what sits cured up your pin sleeve? The spent barrel of an Old South, six yards burnt, stilting his mule-bulk upon a walking cane like a stiff silver needle, shouldered against a magnolia trunk? How heavy have you become, adjudicating this shoreline's truth astride that of your mind's double- exposure—of the built things presently unbuilt, lain spectral over photos of the recently breathy? Of cold lambs, whose white sticks strew your shoals like uniform cordwood? A laugh. Again, the bouncing ball flap of our twinned parity— two congruous finales, pedestrian, hip-joined on this lung ailing bank. You see, these moments are scum water—the only water. And we thirsty must drink.
The Sudden Denoument Literary Collective is thrilled to announce the release of Anthology Volume I: Writings for the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective! This long-awaited anthology is a thoughtfully curated compendium of the best writing published online by the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective from its launch in August of 2016 through April 2018. It includes 138 pieces of cutting-edge poetry, prose and short fiction written by 29 diverse writers from England, Romania, Japan, India, Finland, the United States and Canada. Thirty-one of the 138 pieces were written exclusively for the Anthology. This volume captures the astonishing raw power of these individual and united poetic voices.
Robinson, the reverend daughter—flesh of her turned ash ankles pegged into the middle aged tonsures of a pattern balding lot—scrubs her two owned ox calves in the skin temperature socket of a blue plastic blow-up pool. Its waist bilges with the juice of freshly tanked sheep's blood. Clusters of rust, like bog wet cranberry fruit, scale four unripe flanks—they spur into tangled chortles of mane as ornamental bulbs. Still young curds hemorrhage small under the gut bloat of a dead Pegasus. The hobbled urban sun is a stuck kite, its strewn straw hospice an 800 sq. ft. dirt church.
Previously published half writing on Sudden Denouement, belonging to the stratum ‘thingamawhatsit.’
Had they, at that time, yet mined the rock salt from
the rich, wide ducts of your fugitive tears? In that far
afternoon, you sat curled around the rim of your ringed
fast food cup, dragging its lame hockey puck with its
tepid three inches of black ocean across the mournful,
textured tabletop—assembled with man-age mortar to
linger, disconsolate and amputated, five hundred years
past the white, mute February of the last human bone.
Where, then, to deposit the porous clay figures of our
talks? We spoke keen rondels, shaped to pry apart the
floor planks of passion and the pathology of degenerative
arthritic knee joints. In the vacant, beige tote that
is a dawn without thumbs, hunger gnaws, and similes,
out which French doors exit all the stories? And when
the unwinded flute of your face cannoned out the big
picture window, over the dishwater lake, sinking deep
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Bend down your tired sunflower in this small space behind the bleached ribs of an unconsecrated whale— at another intersection named for a deciduous tree, near the second- hand sock of an Asian nail salon. Fold your nylon sleeping bag's triangle flap a sigh's width under the ritual blade of your jaws. A wet morning eye will cense your mouth's benediction, even as the idling musk from last night's pole- cats reminds the pink canopy of your gums.
In the lay night hours that buffer the first glare from all the stuttering Plexiglas, I entreat the thin scab of sleep, in sympathy, to crochet a scarf for the soul of a bruised liver—here, puffed out like a bean. In my brisk slurping of the confections, cake frosted entremets to the venom of a stillborn, ubiquitous debate, I have eaten too much. I ate too much. Last night. But I also, for luck, spread a wrinkled skin of cellophane over your dead grandmother's flat Willow dish for leftovers. When the auld dome glows like a hot wire and I have raked my mouth with soap and scissor blades, could you set out the sporks and two ounces each of bile in the good chilled apéritif glasses?
My first fragment up at Sudden Denouement, published last month. I’m grateful to be included.
A Drift of Dead Comics
by N. Ian McCarthy
You lay, balanced flat across the colonnade of my fingers. A lower-left corner wags with the intervallic oscillation of a floor fan—the limb of a cotton bed sheet, straddling a clotheswire in the wind. You are almost a breathing thing: the impulse of a contracting diaphragm. You are the sucking gill of an angled fish, one who cannot oxygenate without water. My wax lips strain around the vowels of an invented dialect, during the seventh minute of my resistance to pick at the flat-folded staples that run up the split of your faulted spine. Do I engender a quake that will defoliate your season of autumn? Can I scatter your sheets like loose cedar shavings, as mulch for the bed of my own Silk Road?
I am the yellow-eyed cat, lean and starved, who ladles the spoon of his tongue…
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I might scuff out onto the promontory later, scoop up a few sandy apples of stones and deposit them like longing billiard balls into the salt caves of my hip pockets. Eternity is a second cousin to gray, rushing water—at least, a thing near. I imagine the note of a split, wet fruit spilling its seeds upon the knuckle of a slick river rock. To resonate in three low vibrations—I coalesce into the cloud of an improbably distant future. I align, for a few moments, with the hymn of gravity.
Lately, I am the pearl of a mouth-blown soap bubble—a thinning pane of glass—brittle from the freezer. So, I sit under a Christmas moon and bide. My inert car is a space capsule; from a place within, hydraulics collude to distend the ripe tomato of my bladder. A tomcat, slow, like a smooth electric current, sidles up to spray a spit-clean Porsche's silver bumper, and after, drips the plump smudge of its body into the ditch by a strip of chain link fence—it melts into the night noise of popcorn fireworks and churchyard caws from all the roped dogs, leashed—as am I—to thick, uncomfortable tree trunks. Up an obscured drive, the nomadic snail of an ice cream truck plays speaker ditties— modern music box remixes in concentric circles, near the corner convenience store's pale dead lights where, three weeks earlier, a vexed driver spilled a bullet into the indelible pillow of a man's chest. And I can't help but think of Beauty now, absent any aesthetic, in terms of something like a boiling puddle of pig iron slithering into a dirt mold. It's the wrecking ball cough in my lungs as I flame through another cigarette. It's the heft of a bone splinter I hew from the shins of better, dead men.