Iulia Halatz “Trapeze Artist of the Moon”

Trapeze Artist of the Moon

“You are in the dark because you are trying too much” – Aldous Huxley

Olden song whispers
in my ear
Able to echo
over the dark milieu
Faint copy of the prudish light
carved in black and blue curlicue
Remotely feeding
the smallness of the evening

The grafter of the moon
loves as if
Love is green silk,
translucent mud
And confession
of slow springs

The whole world
sings in a lily-of-the-valley
Whose tongue is numbed
by the language of the night…
Spoken beauty is never true
It is the paleness of a memory
in the protection
of the saffron mornings
Aided by ghosts,
cinders of fear
and abysses
While we walk
in ourselves…

The silvery evening
is an intensity
and an immensity.
You live as if
life is a dance
We’d live as if
life is a kiss
from flickering flames
mauve twilights
and festering wishes.
Tentative frosts
cover the shoots
of your dreams
with ice…

We are the masters
of two small islands:
One of carton trees
and hollowed plastic flowers
and One
where the moon lives.

In her eyes
the thawing vernal lights

“Writing is an Iron Tale, must be tough and sincere to the core of human perception of pain as valor. I am the grumpy T-Rex who started writing out of pain, not because of a polished world. Writing out of love is painless and herbivore. As we sometimes taste blood, ours or others’. Nevertheless, some words are so expensive that we are better left with them unspoken or write them with the ink of a Ghost…” She is a teacher, small entrepreneur and cyclist.

What a Girl Wants


The plastic bag crinkles and Alex crunches on his snack. I asked for the candy store but now, I don’t even know if I want candy. I think I know what’s going on. You know, like I have it all figured out. And sometimes I really do for a moment, then the wrench comes outta no where. Beams right into my life, (my very alive, real life), from another dimension. This all runs through my brain in the time it takes Alex to stop chewing.

“I’m going to need you to….” He trails off mumbling into the other room. “Or no candy store.” I’m not sure what he said in between there. But the it turned me right off. He could have gotten laid but decided to mumble his expectations. I mean, if he really wanted me to do some specific task, wouldn’t he just just look me in the…

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Flying High

Sarah Doughty

“When you look at me,
I’m not just weak in the knees.
I feel like I’m flying.”

When you look at me, I’m not just weak in the knees. I feel like I’m flying while at the same time, stuck in a free fall off your making. And the longer your gaze meets mine, the ground seems to disappear beneath me. It’s a foreign feeling, flying when our eyes meet, and yet, simultaneously, something I crave to experience again and again. The best part is knowing that look is reserved for me and me alone. It gives me comfort in times of sudden exhilaration that become peppered with frantic thoughts of bitter ends. At least then, I know those little tarnishes are merely temporary.

© Sarah Doughty

They are always temporary.
The true depth is always there, and it will outlast everything else.

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The Silent Desire – Jasper Kerkau

The Writings of Jasper Kerkau

I am devoured by the vast space between us, the unrequited silence that leaves me burning into ash and charred bone. There are the quiet moments, in which I touch my palm to her heaving chest, feel the breath of heart and hunger against my cheek as I pull her close to me. I embrace the essence, the soft middle that melts to the touch and brings about sleep. We pass in stiff silence. I swallow words, nod a hello and continue to burn in anonymity. Tomorrow will be different.

[Jasper Kerkau is co-founder, editor, writer, and publisher for Sudden Denouement Literary Collective and Publishing.]

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There’s This Door

Author S. K. Nicholas


In a room with the curtains drawn, she turns her back on me and curls into a ball. When I put my arm around her, I want to give her my words, but I’m frightened by what’s inside. So I keep quiet. She waits and waits, but there’s nothing from my mouth save for the warm air I breathe against the back of her neck. Sometimes she cries. She tosses and turns always making sure to hide her face from mine. The hours tick away. She falls asleep then wakes, and when she rolls over and looks me in the eyes, all at once I feel as light as a feather and as heavy as the black dog on my shoulder.

From somewhere outside comes the sound of meowing cats. They sing in a chorus only they know the meaning of. In my clumsy way, I meow just like them…

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The bottom of my stomach tingles and I think world has shifted slightly to the left. I did sit-ups maybe that’s why my tummy tingles, but I can’t explain the shift. It has turned me sideways. Alex, the one with the beard, tries to sneak peeks at my dark side. I do have one, if you must know. I like to think of myself as a spider crawling into his mouth while he sleeps. I’d steal his words then his soul. I’d linger inside him til he was a corpse and then linger some more. My dreams are much worse though. Those might be too much. Sometimes it’s a man so bloody he’s unrecognizable and being stomped to death. The sight of it makes my chest ache. Nasty world we live in. Then again, the fact that I must see it with my eyes closed, makes me realize I’m just…

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Dirty little hammers

gritty, my old friend. hello, ‘ello you fucking scratching things. i remember the walls and the pain of it but i couldn’t cut you out. we can bless each other in fallacy, but i refuse to not feel rough tears and forensic emotions we buried in a box of scarred fears. we reuse those old habits as if half smoked cigarettes will really satisfy. it’s still nice to pretend we know how to care but more than I can bear, this burden of dropping homes and skipping stones across blurred visions that surround our losses. Bare that broken heart and collapsing mind, evangelical evocations ring clearly in and out of this place. i smell the hate that drives this damage and it makes me stupid drunk with paranoid afraid. who the fuck am i to say anything anymore? what’s speech, when what’s said is a stain, stigmata we’ve carved into our hands. cold steel barrels are deep dark mouths hungry for your empty bliss. i’d give it all back to find your tears on a letter in my pocket. days of yore yawn ahead and i have rinsed, repeated, repented. find us slowly, or not at all. we are still digging our way out of the morass of nonsensical predispositions. I find all of this pain fucking objectionable. i’m tired from the fall and i will call out for help, by God. i have to believe i know i’m not alone. so touch the scars and remember where to find that haven we’ve all dreamed about. Tattoo your words on this world and grab it by the throat, but gently, as if a lover. it’s the only way to stay sane when broken. i wanted you to know that i lost, but found some twisted form of peace. i’m grateful that it was you. you know me though, i will refuse to stay down. i will arise and remember that broken can find fixing when acting on a love that’s been gone too long. arise, that’s a good place to start. pick up that dirty little hammer and do your worst boy. needles and preparation. i’m finally ready for absolution.

image courtesy of Pinterest

An old punk trying to make sense of what I see and hear and think and feel. Words pulled from the ether. Introverted agoraphobic explorer.  Hockey and food junkie. Constantly recovering from this human condition. Find more at http://www.ramjetpoetry.com