Let’s Get Real

My words are my lifeblood spilt, splattered across pages, and dispersed over the internet in hopes of making connections with hearts that beat in time with mine. I’m a cheerful malcontent—by that I mean I’m a fucking mess of optimism and white hot rebellion. I write about my aversion to organized religion and the corrupt state of American government, and the beauty of being a mother who has raised an independent-minded daughter. I also write poetry that mentions death, decomposition, and post mortem fluids leaking all over a kitchen floor. Six months ago, my mother died, and was found on her kitchen floor several days after she’d died. So yeah, I’m not in a rainbow place at the moment. A lot of people are sick of reading about my mother, but I don’t give a fuck. I write my heart out, whether anyone likes it or not, because it is my therapy.

There are a lot of people who are tired of reading my ‘sad’ posts. To those people, I say, “Follow the rest who left me if you can’t stand my truth.” I write my truth, above all else. I know what I’m all about, believe me—I’m not a fucking fad.

I will never conform to the rules. I’m not a writer because I seek commercial success. I’m a writer because I’m a fucking writer. I don’t conform to fads—in fact, people conform to me, and writers like me. But conformists always flee, eventually…

You’re the real deal, or you’re not.

Quotes by Magpie Carey

Sometimes I imagine myself not plummeting, but falling slowly, spiraling uncontrolled into the black; the nonentity is dizzying and cold like outer space, unsympathetic.

 

So Dad opened the door to the dark January night. The sky was black as pitch and cloudless, the stars brilliant, perfect white dots. He picked up his suitcase, and he said nothing as he crossed the threshold, shutting the door gently behind him. Back then, Dad looked exactly like the Renaissance era’s personification of Jesus Christ.

 

I feel sorry for her because she doesn’t know. The last time she saw our house, she was watching it grow smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror. But I have driven by nearly every Sunday afternoon since Mom and I moved away, and I have watched it decompose.

Our old house is a corpse. Maybe I should burn it down and dump its ashes in the lake.

 

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© Kindra M. Austin/cover design by Allane Sinclair

Available on Amazon  and Amazon UK.

Meditation- Kindra M. Austin

My latest on Sudden Denouement.

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

Shall I ascend to solitude,
eagle high
enough to spy
myself?
Put my metal parts to practice, and
train my reason to speak in
comprehensive sentences?

I presently think in blinks of
tainted photographs
flicking—
our lives a fucking flip-book filled with phony animation, as
though we’ve never been anything more than a
pair of paper dolls pretending to breathe.

The surgeon lied. I am not bionic;
should’ve demanded a synthetic heart
instead.
Mine is afflicted with fissures, and
I feel the blood leaching like so many earthworms
smothering my organs.

My body is not a temple, but a churchyard—
your burial ground, and there’s no space reserved for
me. So ascend I shall,
eagle high
enough…


Kindra M. Austin is an indie author (her books can be found here), a founding member of Indie Blu(e), and a writer/managing editor at Sudden Denouement, Blood Into Ink, and Whisper and the…

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Tome

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My face is lined with volumes you’ve never read; and yet my eyes speak to you? Trust me, they belie what lies beneath my wine cellar. Just ask him, the one who has actually pored over this flesh, and subsequently survived the fire expelled from these lungs. I was not fashioned for the pleasure of man; I am no honeycomb waiting to be tasted, and these eyes of mine are not the bedroom kind. Look harder if you must, but you’ll only leave perplexed. I am not a piece, but an entire book, epic, and you cannot fathom me.

© Kindra M. Austin

(image: Pinterest)

A Righteous End- Christine Ray

I wish I could wear this poem around my head like a halo.

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

i woke in the place
where you play god
naked upon the white
marble sheets
stigmata roses
blooming crimson
in my palms
across my breasts
and sex
a fragrant garland
of my sins
left to adorn
this shrine
the holy spirit
dripped slowly
into my eyes
from where you
impaled me with
the crown
of thorns
you placed
upon my brow
crystallizing the visions
tasted of spiced honey
when it fell upon
my torn lips
parched tongue
you had roared
blasphemy
accused me of
taking your sacred
name in vain
when I declared
that you were not
my true god
merely an idol
a token
you tried to
baptize me
in the fire
cleanse me
of my affliction
but you are the one
smoldering in a
dark corner
all rage and ashes
while I resurrect
with the dawn
of the sun

Image courtesy of Pinterest


Christine Ray  is a writing…

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Suburb Blues

Aww, hell yes.

RamJet Poetry

Suburb

idyllic cuneiform

insouciant formality

build a bear mansions

and hybrid machines

your Bernoulli principles

are only the beginning of flight

those feet are still on the ground

same as the rest

roll of the eye telling

not enough follows on Instagram

this picture is incongruent

it defines but has no depth

on my Iphone X

surplus of pride pleased

worth of paper and plastic

in hand

ruby rube and the offspring

ruse under the rude tones

of narcissistic affirmation

family affairs and

fecal matters

please drop the fucking pretense

you’re a talking monkey

just like the rest of us

so fuck off

with the holier than thou

highbrow hierarchy

learn to appreciate

people for who they are

Not What They Have.

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