Bee Jams – Jimmi Campkin

I must. I love it.

FREE VERSE REVOLUTION

Sitting uneasily on the remains of an old washer-dryer, I look up to the sky and toast the world.  At my feet, dead yellow grass paws pathetically at my shoes.  I light another cigarette and blow smoke into the day.  It is nice to feel involved in some small way with this wider conscious, even if their habituality leaves me feeling isolated and pointless.  

This old washer is hollow now; just four flimsy pieces of metal with the innards long since ripped out.  To my immediate right, a pair of sneakers hang in the thin air of this syphilitic town.  The Boy had finally reached his crescendo, despite our best efforts.  Even now I didn’t dare look up at the floating, lifeless body looking down on me.  Rarely did he gain the upper hand, but here we are – The Boy swinging from a tree and me left to explain…

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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 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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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 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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And The Winners Are. . .

Sudden Denouement Collective

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In November of 2018, the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective announced its first Short Story Contest centered around the theme ‘Things Would Never Be The Same.’  We received 129 submissions from around the globe with incredibly diverse interpretations of the theme.

We took these submissions very seriously, going through not one, not two, but three rounds of judging that included publishing our 11 finalists on Sudden Denouement.  We thank everyone who read, liked, commented, shared, and voted on these fine pieces of writing.

We are pleased to announce our winners!

1st place:

Basilike Pappa – No More Than You Can Salt

2nd place: Wes Trexler – All Caps, No Spaces

3rd place: Stephanie Clark – The Chasm &

C.G. Thompson – Lies

Honourable Mentions:

Allister Nelson – Unholy Communion &
Riley Mayes – Las Luchadoras

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Sudden Denouement Welcomes New Collective Member Nitin Lalit Murali – Us

Nitin Lalit Murali joins Sudden Denouement with this heart-piercing poem.

Sudden Denouement Collective

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We’ve been through the same routine, you and I:
me, coming home in a prescription haze with slurry speech
and a numbing nonchalance,
and you, broken and infuriated
to see me ‘waste my life away.’
But what’s there to ‘waste away?’
Hasn’t life heaped piles and piles of sorrow on us
like arachnids poured on a Fear Factor contestant,
lying in a tub?
You yell. You scream, ‘I’m leaving you!
I’m not going through this again!’
and in that moment of semi-consciousness
when my mind only whispers – the thoughts circling my mind
like the breeze from a slowly moving ceiling fan –
I barely nod, and that agitates and burdens you more.
Soon, you aim arrows of curses at my core,
hoping they’ll pierce my callousness,
make me admit that I’m a promise-breaking hypocrite
who crosses his heart
before plummeting into an abyss
so dank and deep where speech

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