The Monsters are Due on Vine Street- Samantha Lucero

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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 before
she fell into that uncanny embrace
of unknowable death, where the eyes, wide like wax
stare out into another, unseen place
blind to where everyone else remains now
because she’s escaped and found herself

who killed—— ?

the best psychics in venice beach
say his name was ——.


Samantha Lucero likes… uhhh… cats, and can never think of what to say about herself, she writes at sixredseeds, sometimes and is a managing editor at the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective.

bogged, buried, bridgewatered-Lois E. Linkens & Henna Sjöblom

bogged buried bridegwatered

I was fourteen, and starting to decompose faster

the water spilled

over the years,

over her body

like a plague of ants.

Already kneeling in the mud

I could feel my body being stretched out 

nipples aching, labia swelling

it drove its way in,

with a silent battering ram

and swords of silk.

you were the first time

I felt the touch of death 

between my legs

oh, hateful –
but grateful she was
that the stone struck when it did.

a cry of despair,
like when I was nine,
lying on the hard parquet floor of the living room
cupping my breasts,
trying to push the knots back in
I’m just a child! I’m just a child!

she lifted dead hands
in praise of her protector,
for protect her he had,
and as layers of dirt built up,

I threw rocks after boys
who came yelling my name

she pitied them,
Leave me alone! Leave me alone!
And oh,
didn’t you know?
You’re supposed to bleed

bound to lie
in pungent darkness
that she only made danker.

Year by year,
as my body sank down in the bog
I grew more and more desperate
searching for ways to cleanse myself
an orgasm,
a reckless mascara plump on the cheek,
a slit wrist,
an aching need
for affirmation
the summary of an entire childhood,
tucked into a bra

the sores on her skin
filled with soil,

all girly things are good,

the scars on her arms

bright in the black of the bog

all girls to learn how to play nicely

how to decay without a sound

compressing yourself into a fossilized smile,

a blindfold

and a constantly repeating

“yes, I forgive you”

 

This was originally published by the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective.


Lois describes herself as a “confused english student,” though one quickly finds a polished, charming poet in her work. She has an elegant style that compliments her keen insight and whimsical sensibilities. You can read more of her work at her self-titled blog.

Murder Tramp Birthday, previously Malicia Frost, dropped the disguise and is now publishing under her real name Henna Sjöblom. A hobbyist writer and an aspiring novelist from Finland, she enjoys surrealism, sci-fi and horror, and her works often deal with mental illness. More of her works can be found at her Murder Tramp Birthday.

As if from Nowhere by Sergio Ortiz

another-painting

[Poem and painting by Sergio Ortiz]

 

Miguel Angel’s memories haunt him

like a baggage car that does not quite fit.

But let’s talk about his voice,

 

somewhat faded by the years,

as if words were spying on him.

As if there were no throat

only the spoils of a race war

 

hidden somewhere in the towers

of New York City.

He talks about his mother

who is in her 90’s and lives

on the beaches of Rincon.

Talks about the wife

and grandchild he’s left behind.

 

Suddenly, death is him

and this is the ferry’s last stop.

Miguel Angel from nowhere

 

the world becomes numerous,

but the cold keeps its stories.

To Wolves- Austin M. Ely

man-1519665_960_720

Drawn from the darkness

Only to be thrown To Wolves

In an unforgiving light

As I am ripped to pieces

I come back together

In the blink of an eye

I…

Take a step forward

And I die…

In a pit of pain

A pitiful way to go

When I’m toe to toe

Eye to eye

With the beast

Consider Hammurabi’s Code

An eye for an eye

At least have the decency to numb me first

As a matter of fact

Take both of my eyes

For I have seen too much

In such little time

 

Image courtesy of Pixabay


A poet based out of the city of Wilkes Barre, Northeast Pennsylvania. At the age of 13 he began writing poetry and short stories in a foster home in order to express what he couldn’t. Through the years, now at the age of 21, he has always sought to personally develop his word play as well as inspire those who read his work to perceive themselves through and to the world. He has dubbed himself a “modernai literary” which is a title prescribed by his generation in order to distinguish himself and his writing.

 

His blog, which can be seen at ameofficialblog.com houses much of his works for any and everyone to read.

Emily- Samantha Lucero

dickinson

i was once obscure
like food stains under skirts
or a film of oil on a flowers tongue
but i grew to be a bigger blemish
like a birthmark on gods face
until i had to hide away
so no one saw

death had come on many occasions
and i, the greeter at the door would grin
but i was not the company he was looking for
when i’d invite him in

thus i watched them all march out
my loves; one-by-one and fall to ash
and still i, never being the one sought out
began to wear white instead of black
to mourn; no coward soul is mine,
in hopes he’d never return.


Samantha Lucero likes… uhhh… cats, and can never think of what to say about herself, she writes at sixredseeds, sometimes and is a managing editor at Sudden Denouement Literary Collective.

As if from Nowhere by Sergio Ortiz

another-painting

[Poem and painting by Sergio Ortiz]

 

Miguel Angel’s memories haunt him

like a baggage car that does not quite fit.

But let’s talk about his voice,

 

somewhat faded by the years,

as if words were spying on him.

As if there were no throat

only the spoils of a race war

 

hidden somewhere in the towers

of New York City.

He talks about his mother

who is in her 90’s and lives

on the beaches of Rincon.

Talks about the wife

and grandchild he’s left behind.

 

Suddenly, death is him

and this is the ferry’s last stop.

Miguel Angel from nowhere

 

the world becomes numerous,

but the cold keeps its stories.