Nicole Lyons speaking up ❤️

Nicole Lyons

Hypocrisy served
with a hefty side of red beans
and white rice,
and a pledge to love
the red man almost as much
as you love the white,
is still hypocrisy served
with a hefty side of red beans
and white rice.
Bless your heart
and a true patriot’s soul,
take care of them both,
those brown refried beans
you fill your gullet with
may have expired inside cages,
best to send them back
where they came from and stick
to black beans marked free,
the ones you can grind
without outward displays of guilt
you don’t even feel.
Mix us up a brew on Sunday morning
when red flags ripple
against blue skies and you
all meet to pat yourselves
on the back beneath the eyes
of a bearded man on a wooden tee
who would shake his head in disbelief.
Line up in rows in pews
and raise…

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I’m incredibly honored to be published today on Free Verse Revolution. ❤

FREE VERSE REVOLUTION

Kindra FearI fear being found.

Bloated,

Diffused green, and

Rigor mortis—

I fear screams I will not hear.

Let me be like cat or dog;

I’ll run away from home to land at

Death’s doorstep.

Let me breakdown

unknown

and nurture the earth with quiet dignity.  

I fear a face I will not see.

Bloated,

Diffused green, and

Rigor mortis—

I fear her grief.


© Kindra M. Austin  

Kindra M. Austin is a wife, mother, artist, and indie author from Chesaning, Michigan. Her debut novel, Magpie in August was published in April, 2017, and her book of poems and prose titled Constant Muses followed in December. Other publications include several poems featured in Anthology Volume I (Writings from the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective), Swear to Me (Free Verse Revolution), and two essays advocating for LGBT rights printed in the Mansfield Pride magazine.

Her latest book, a novella titled For…

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Wow ❤️

RamJet Poetry

FIFY

FIFY

I forced my heart into the shape of your hate

I piled all of your shit upon my plate

I followed the leader

like a good soldier

thought it would fall away

as I got colder

I crushed your anxieties and snorted them

I cooked your expectations and mainlined them

I drank all the guilt and drowned in it

the questions I had are meaningless now

are you happy with black tied lies?

look at what you have done

look at what I have become

insignificant

I put it in my pipe and smoked it

dreaming of azure clouds and empty minds

image courtesy of Pinterest

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❤️ my J-Man is legit bananas.

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

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I should resist, but she has the confident glow of a seasoned drunk, smelling of cheap vodka and cherry gum.  She does handstands and I watch those filthy, unwashed baseball sneakers form an arc; just missing a string to be a devastating bow.  She hovers upside down for a moment and her arms burst with blood and sinew.  She walks on her hands, legs now bent like a scorpion, as I walk slowly and solemnly behind her like an undertaker walking to a funeral.

My friends tell me she is bad news but I like bad news.  I read about murder every day, I slow down for car wrecks, and I love how the spot on her forehead is infected and seething from being picked by grubby fingernails.  I love how she pushes rusty nails under her skin.  I love how she took up my dare to stand under the…

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Thank you, Mariah! ❤️

INDIE BLU(E)

Kindra Austin’s For You, Rowena uncovers a mystery about love and relationships, and how loss can come back to haunt you.

By Mariah Voutilainen

Given a choice of literary genres, mystery is never my first to pick up.  Perhaps it is the constant and nagging question in the back of my mind: “How did the author create such a puzzle that I can’t immediately solve?”  The details, perfectly interlocking, lead to an ending that is usually satisfying, but leaves me somehow disappointed with my own inability to catch the culprit before the final chapter, or worse, obsessing about tiny clues in an attempt to solve the crime.  For You, Rowena was a different type of mystery for me:  I didn’t wonder so much at the intricacies of how a crime was planned or carried out; Kindra Austin set the scene and created characters so fascinating and sympathetic that the only…

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Let’s rise up together.

Blood Into Ink

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Bruised But Not Broken, Whisper and the Roar, Indie Blu(e), and Blood Into Ink are joining forces to publish an anthology about the lived experience of sexual harassment and assault. We believe that it is more important than ever before that more voices speak out and reclaim their strength by owning their survival stories. All contributors, female and male, can submit up to three pieces of creative work- these can include; Poetry, Prose, Essay, Short Fiction, Prose, or original Artwork, but should be limited in length (under 1,000 words) considering that this is an anthology. You will be notified if your work is accepted. Please do not consider nonacceptance as any diminishment of your experience, but as with any publishing venture, we must try to fit the individual pieces together into a strong whole.

  • Submission of previously published pieces is acceptable if you still own the rights to your work.

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Saw your face today at the supermarket;

you watched me under the counter and

over the mustard

potato salad.

Oh! How far you’ve come;

I should say thanks for spitting down my throat.

Thanks for the lies, babe;

for nothing is truer than venom.

You never did have the intention of making me an

honest woman.

It’s been years, but still you burn me;

my reputation smolders,

and I see the smoke in their eyes.

 

I’ve been forgiven, but not forgotten.

 

I hate you,

but I’ll take a half pound of your pastrami.

 

© Kindra M. Austin

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The fables between us 

Satirical metaphors prance 

The ironies bleed pretty white lies 

Sarcasm bursts like ejaculation 

Covered in Satan’s thick liquid

Storybook pages stick together

 

The fables between us

Sardonic recitals

Recited by jesters and

Ponies dance in time while

His portal opens to swallow us all

 

Sadistic hymns 

Written by gargoyles and 

Unicorns prance in the clocks while 

Her throat opens to consume the tale

 

Sadistic hymns

Hummed at Sunday Mass

Panic the court and

Constable is lighted aflame

 

Tarnished fairy tales 

Scripted by euphoric lovers 

Dripping sweat lingers in the air 

Scent of religious perfume 

Lurks between the satin sheets

 

Tarnished fairy tales

Playwrights

Tragedians

Star-crossed nothing

But sky

Moonlight paints you

Angel white and me

The daemon

 

Stonewashed dogma 

Doctrines drenched in your spit 

Undressed teachings 

Relentlessly misinterpreted 

Forgotten verses 

Lyrics shredded 

Constantly concaved 

Staring into the phantasm 

Sucked in by your gospel

 

Stonewashed dogma

Canon loaded

Peace be with you…

 

Braeden- italics

© Kindra M. Austin and Braeden Michaels

Don’t forget to check out Braeden’s excellent blog, Storm of Ink.

I love it when the Weyward Sisters come to town ❤

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

I am playing with knives
again
sharpening them
lovingly
against brown leather strap
admiring the way
hair splits cleanly
upon the well-honed edge
(Christine E. Ray)

Listen!
Sounds like a violin–
fine strings ‘gainst steel bow
I play concerto
splitting hairs
(Kindra M. Austin)

I’m trimming those frayed ends
sharpening those
pointy convictions
giving them a sharp edge
a serrated opinion,
ready to pierce you
where it hurts you more
(Megha Sood)

Cold steel on skin,
I blossom,
stare down the line
take aim
at friend, foe and fortune
with my throwing knives;
multiply and divide,
split and survive.
(Kristiana Reed)

I like a razor
but xyraphi sings to me
of shreds, edges, ends
sweeter than any cutlery.
An x is an eraser,
that’s why I draw it long
to keep it clean and short
and shave me complication.
Oh, how…

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