Silent Hour sits with a notebook on its lap or in front of a computer. Its pen is fine-tipped and black, its current notebook is also black and almost finished, and the computer is rather old.

Silent Hour is mostly night.

There is a window in Silent Hour’s room. A blue neon light appears from time to time across the street. It comes from a recording studio, whose owner seems to also prefer the night. Silent Hour misses the light when it’s not on.

Silent Hour is a bookmonger and a wordcubine. It reads, writes, watches.

It is thread wrapped around a spinning wheel.

It howls with the wolves with whom it wants to be.

Silent Hour is me.


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Call for submissions- Olive Skins

MY VALIANT SOUL

First of all, I would like to extend my gratitude to all my genuine followers who have supported my work in the best possible way over the years and so now I am thrilled to announce that my dear friend Kristiana and I am soon going to start our own collective OLIVE SKINS which is scheduled for June end. This collective will be a collection of all the brave voices out there which often go unheard by others. The aim is to take submissions about mental health, pain, abstract poems, and fiction.

Ink your beautiful words, surreal poetry, prose and fiction through our email. We want raw poetry, no same old cliched romance poetry, if you want to be romantic, show us that in your fierce style! The collective shall be themed base.

Guidelines-

Submit your best work, no rhyming poetry, please. We will not accept anything which doesn’t enthrall…

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(UN)TIMELY – Bojana Stojcic

Bojana Stojcic on Free Verse Revolution. About time.

FREE VERSE REVOLUTION

whatthe hell are you

areyou realorunreal

tensedortenseless

bestbeforeornever ending

don’ttorture me any more

tellme

iknow it’d be easier to be an animal

andlive in acontinual present

withno why’s and what if’s

orbe immortal sohe andicould

loveeach other throughout centuries

onlylovers left alive

aloneand forever

linearorcyclical,iwouldn’t care

justnottemporal (I hate temporal)

iwish you were just ours to share

uncountedand unmeasured

permanentlike rivers flowing to the sea

likespacewhere everything is in its place

instead, you unplugged us

youcut us short andturned us

intoahardenedlavaflow

damnyou forleaving me wondering

(eternallyorwith an expirydate? Tell me!)


Bojana Stojcicwrites and bites, like a lot, so try not…

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Iulia Halatz – All roads lead to Rome

Lovely poetry by Iulia Halatz.

Sudden Denouement Literary Collective

Ellen Rogers 2

All roads lead to Rome

All roads lead to Rome
and poetry
-Delmore Schwartz

All words lead to Love
And the poetry in the afterLove

I wish I wrote poems
For the dreamers of barren lands.
They do not go to Rome
They go to places
That cannot be.

Maybe love is a colorless, odorless
shapeless haze
We see through
with the eyes of
the bricked sky,
pathless oceans
walled shrubberies
streeted lunarian trails
breathing and tingling
scents
In the perfect nightmare
of flowers…
Vines reward our sun
with the sweetness
of grapes
wedded in perpetuity with
the linear shades of amber.

From the Good Place
Where joy is an illumination
To the Place that Cannot Be
They would have worn
The silver claw
of the Moon
above their heads
nightly
daily
musingly
vibrantly….
Art by Ellen Rogers.

Iulia Halatz

“Writing is an Iron Tale, must be tough and sincere…

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Watch – Basilike Pappa

Today I’m on Free Verse Revolution.

FREE VERSE REVOLUTION

That emotionless tick,

that tack, like a wink,

I nailed you to a wall

but couldn’t keep you

Always that tack,

that same tick,

I wrapped you around my wrist

but couldn’t hold you

I clicked my tongue out of rhythm

danced off beat

sang out of tune

to confuse you,

but you always keep an eye against me.

I took a screwdriver to you

to untick your tack, untack your tick

I ripped you open

but couldn’t kill you.

That tick, unquestioning,

and tack unrelenting

what will you gain from my ending?


Basilike Pappa is a bookmonger and a wordcubine. She believes that in poetry an image must montage the mind with false cognates, and that god is sun on a copper coffee pot. Her prose has appeared in Life & Art Magazine, Intrinsick and Timeless Tales, and her poetry in Rat’s Ass Review, Surreal Poetics

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Walpurgisnacht

M.P Powers, one of my favourites.

Sketches from Berlin

fantasy-on-faust-mariano-fortuny

It’s Walpurgisnacht here in Germany,
the night the witches take Brocken, night of bassoons
in the concert halls, and sirens
and heat lightning flashing in the clouds.
You watch from your garden
which sits amid a canyon of dim and oddly-shaped
pre-war buildings. You watch while listening
to the people in the buildings murmuring, banging pots,
playing old jazz songs. Every five minutes or so, the clouds blossom
with fire, glowing and throbbing, revealing their shapes.

And now it’s dark. Only the lights
in the buildings gleam,
the reddish-gold glow of the rooms spilling over
the balconies and onto the walls.

A shadow moves behind a thin, luminescent curtain.
Another one appears. You watch them tango and whirl
as loneliness, that hissing serpent
with red eyes, enters the garden, slithering
through a bed of flowers and up the tree, coiling
around a limb just over you.

But now the light…

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Interzone

Sudden Denouement Literary Collective

by Jimmi Campkin

I remember she once told me; the funny thing about endings is that they never happen. By the time you reach it, you’re already past it. Likewise we can never experience tomorrow, it is always just out of arms reach. She was always saying stuff like this; it sounded profound but then she once told me that only men die, women just sleep until it is time to wake up. I was having a panic attack at the time and this apocalyptic vision of women emerging out of a cemetery did nothing to help.

I hurl another rock into a jet black ocean. She’s running late but I have a comfortable spot, several small stones and pebbles, three pathetic little flowers clinging onto the pier and a few thousand miles of uninterrupted empty horizon to stare into.

I dangle my feet over the edge and feel a…

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