Turning pages that I can’t read

RamJet Poetry

Turning pages

turn the page on the sun

lost and I’m loaded

corals curl under my eyes

gettin’ high on dragon smoke

I dance with Ms. no one

she tells me I’m fine

but I know I’m gonna die

we’ll turn another page on the sun

sing about mercurial days

all the ways we wanna win

eat this porridge of sin

I just don’t know where to begin

I know to top it with some butter

you can’t just wipe it off your chin

that shit stains you forever

Ms. no body says I’m fine

But I know that’s her only line

’cause she’s all in my head

I kinda wish we were dead

turn the page on the moon

I find I’m kinda half alive

I musta done it wrong

that’s what the coward said

I go by Yoda’s words

Do or don’t, there’s no try motherfucker

or something like that

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I buried myself by the seaside ‘neath a sky

patchwork grey and sobbing. Never in life had

I been so severely revered for my truths.

Posthumous respect is a backhanded compliment that

bleeds into my grave, cold and unimportant.

Ain’t nothing much that matters to a corpse.

 

© Kindra M. Austin

(image: Pinterest)

Coming July 2018- ‘A Sparrow Stirs its Wings’ by Rachel Finch

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

Sudden Denouement Publishing is thrilled to announce the upcoming release of Rachel Finch’s book of poetry ‘A Sparrow Stirs its Wings.” Rachel is the powerhouse behind the Bruised But Not Broken community on Facebook, which provides support and healing for trauma survivors. She is also a Contributing Writer for Blood Into Ink and founder of Bruised But Not Broken on WordPress. She is a symbol of hope throughout the world and we are honored to see her vision come to life.

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Shinbone-Jimmi Campkin

Jimmi has a unique way of reminding me that I’m alive. ❤

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

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We’d swum upstream, arching through the reeds and the little currents swirling around the sharp rocks just below us, grazing our elbows and knees.  The river meandered under the watch of hills crumpled and confused like an unmade bed.  Nothing moved except the wind and the water; and two undernourished, hopelessly drunk, hopelessly pale little tadpoles in the dark green of a midnight dip.

She’d hotwired the car in a dark corner of the drive-thru.  Under the artificial glare of neon bulbs, we’d seen the young couple fingering each other damp before sucking away their respective juices and hitting the fries.  All she needed was a cigarette lighter and a hairclip and we had a car.  A good car.  A V6 apparently, whatever that means, with two belts of cheap vodka and an automatic transmission.  I didn’t mind.  It meant she could grip my cock and still keep one hand…

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