Mad Bongo Maze

—bing bong bing bong—

In a Light before the Drape — 2018-07-13

In a Light before the Drape

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
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Brack — 2018-07-11

Brack

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.
Just Released! Anthology Volume I: Writings from the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective — 2018-06-23

Just Released! Anthology Volume I: Writings from the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

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.

Now available on Amazon.com and Amazon.com.uk

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Little Offering — 2018-04-20

Little Offering

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.
Our Dissolving Omnibus (Pages to Pulp)- N. Ian McCarthy — 2018-02-23

Our Dissolving Omnibus (Pages to Pulp)- N. Ian McCarthy

Previously published half writing on Sudden Denouement, belonging to the stratum ‘thingamawhatsit.’

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

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

into…

View original post 214 more words

Used to Be a Pizza Place — 2018-02-09

Used to Be a Pizza Place

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.
Fallow, the Fields — 2018-02-03

Fallow, the Fields

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?
Introducing N. Ian McCarthy — 2018-01-06

Introducing N. Ian McCarthy

My first fragment up at Sudden Denouement, published last month. I’m grateful to be included.

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

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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Plummeting Poem — 2018-01-01

Plummeting Poem

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.
Sitting and Somebody’s Holiday — 2017-12-30

Sitting and Somebody’s Holiday

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.