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A Forum for Divergent Literature

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Writing is often a solitary vocation. Sudden Denouement is a community of like-minded individuals who strive to promote each other’s writing. We offer a community of best writers in the world, and also offer the option of publishing. Please send a sample of your writing to Jasperkerkauwriting@gmail.com.

Jasper Kerkau

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Jasper Kerkau’s Review of Millicent Borges Accardi’s Only More So

Friday reads – Jasper’s review is pure poetry

A Forum for Divergent Literature

th (2)Jasper Kerkau’s Review of Millicent Borges Accardi’s Only More So

    “I will never write another review,” at least that is what I told myself. It is a draining process, as I heap great responsibility on myself to navigate the words of the poet and give a proper context to their writing. More specifically, I only write about those noble souls who find their fiber of the universe to pull, as the mortals run in circles, procreating, feasting on the mundane, and seeking solace in profane, menial tasks. Millicent Borges Accardi contacted me after my interview with Melissa Studdard and the review of her stunning collection of poetry I Ate the Cosmos for Breakfast. I had no intention of writing another long-form review, amid the struggle of publishing our first two books and my work with the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective. I have received many requests for reviews (some of…

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Among The Stars

It was colder than usual that morning,
the way the wind was blowing just so,
I heard the sun weeping her love,
into the moon and its fading glow.

And I watched the stars as they flickered
to the beat of my broken heart,
as if someone was dancing across them
turning goodbye into a work of art.

I have heard there was a man
who walked among the stars.
Legend says he was a teller of tales,
how he could write his soul into ours.

I have heard this very man
also walked among the weak.
Legend says he whistled the truth
and encouraged those voices to speak.

I have heard  this very man
also walked among the strong.
Legend says he carried a tune
with the weight of all, they had done wrong.

I have heard this very man
also walked among the missed.
Legend says he whispered his love
and sealed it with a kiss.

I have heard this very man
also walked among the dead.
Legend says he penned lullabies
to sing those souls to bed.

And so the story goes
about this man and his many stars,
and how he no longer walks among us
but he hasn’t gone very far.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

In Memory of Gord Downie

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I Told Him No

He told me how brave I was,
writing my story into a sea of stigma,
how my words, my voice,
would break waves and save souls,
a lighthouse for the mentally ill,
the distraught, the unloved.

I told him no.

He told me how beautiful I was,
smiling sadly with eyes like burnt moons
hiding secrets behind the sun,
a gravitational pull for the mentally ill,
the distraught, the unloved.

I told him no.

He told me how special I was,
tempting great men with good faith,
a harlot born from Satan’s tongue,
a perfect delusion for the mentally ill,
the distraught, the unloved.

I told him no.

He told me he was mentally ill,
distraught, unloved,
in dire need of desperate release,
and salvation would only come on his knees,
shaking to the sound of my voice.

I told him no.

He told me how sorry I would be
when he twisted my words like arms
and shot arrows through the bull’s-eye
he had painted on my chest.

I told him no.

I am not the voice of a saviour,
nor the hint of a wish,
I am fucking dangerous,
coming to claw the truth
from behind a liar’s lips.

 

© Nicole Lyons 2017

Her Belt

I wonder if she thought of me
when she cinched her belt,
and if she had to punch
extra holes in the leather
before she did it,
and if it was real leather
or as fake as we were.
I wonder these things,
and quickly follow up
my wondering with more,
like why I am this way,
and if I was the one
who handed her that belt
when I walked into her life
and took it from her.
Living feels hard
when death comes calling,
whispering names
that sound like yours,
but dying seems easy
when life comes calling,
shouting names
that should have been hers.
And maybe that is why
I wonder about that fucking belt
more than anything else.
That belt would have served me better,
holding up the weight of this life
she would have lived
fuller than I have.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

Quid Pro Quo

Dennis is a fucking beast! Love this so much.

RamJet Poetry

QuidProQuo

Quid pro quo Clarice.  The money is gone up your nose. Pip pop tip-top running rabid sideways on the sidewalks singing kill kill kill the poor along with Biafra. Paint them taking tainted terror and feeding the pretty demons.  Gift the shift of religion to the little lambs you are recounting the sordid legend of political Zelda for.  See the whites of their eyes and frown down upon the frailty.  My finger gun blasts a hole in your understanding as you sit shaking out the burnings we’re too cowardly to give a name to. Ascertain the relevant odd job backlog push file you didn’t know you needed. Needless to needle the maggots of Disneyland with low brow humour as we have to ask ourselves what in the actual fuck is wrong with this place. It’s the slow simmer of the devil’s sommelier hosting a tasting of Hell’s finest Cabernet. If…

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In Collapse

Still, I wonder, here in collapse,
if I should pick the jagged stones
of humility out of my knees,
or let them settle in, pushing
rough edges into my vulnerability.
And if I did, would you see me as divine?

© Nicole Lyons 2017

All Of The Cynics Are Left Instead

All of the stars in me are falling
all of the waves have breached the banks.
All of the hope in me is spiralling,
all of the hate has been given thanks.
All of the love in me is aching,
all of the pain has come to dance,
all of the light in me is flickering,
all of the darkness has another chance.
All of the life in me is weeping,
all of the death has come to call.
All of the ships I sailed are sinking,
all of the heavens have begun to fall.
All of the faith in me is breaking,
all of the will has met its end,
all of the giving has turned to taking,
all of the evil has become my friend.
All of the words have turned to dust,
all of the poetry has lost its soul,
all of the music has stopped playing,
all of the burdens have taken their toll.
All of the magic has lost its lustre,
all of the believers have gone to bed,
all of the artists have given up,
all of the cynics are left instead.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

Nothing To Say

There is nothing to be said about the way you hover over me,
nothing about the way you grind your hips and your filth
against me from somewhere inside places, I have never been.
There is nothing to be said about the way you breathe,
hot and filled with rage, against the back of my neck
when I write your ugly truths into existence
and when I speak my words above yours.
There is something to be said about the way
a woman’s voice carries, though, and it crosses oceans,
climbs mountains, and charges through wastelands,
gaining speed and strength with every ear it tickles.
But there is nothing to be said of the shoulders
too weak to hold the weight of those voices,
the ears too ignorant to listen,
and the mouths too vile to spit anything other than hate.
No, there is nothing much to say about any of that,
but you can be damn sure I am going to say it.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

The Next Big Thing

And you, with your twenty-year-old,
come hither face, shimmering
with the light of the sun,
and a life that has yet to be lived.
Look at you, unmarked and perfect,
recycling the pretty words that you have eaten,
and the lovely ideas of all the tragedies
that you have never even tasted.
I don’t like the way you keep
trying to force them down my throat,
as if choking on your nothing
could possibly cleanse me
of the suffering I have swallowed.
Darling, I see you,
all twenty years of you,
and I will invite you to my table,
set the prettiest place for you
to come back to me,
after you have gagged on life,
wiped your mouth,
and asked for a second fucking helping.

© Nicole Lyons 2017