Homage-Laura C./5 A.M Decisions

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

Shut your mouth.

No, seriously, shut your damn mouth, you look retarded. That’s right, RETARDED.

Oh, London.

Friday Night Office Girls in Friday Night Office Uniforms; midnight tights running down the front of a leg. Nuggets and fries and half on the floor. Alcoholic grins, my new best friend, a slump, the sharp screen light, ‘are you OK? You left without saying goodbye!’, she’ll be fine, she’ll be fine, I’m getting off, she’ll be fine.

Oh, London.

With your Monday Morning People in their Monday Morning Gear; polished shoes, optimistic gym kit after the weekly conference call with the head office. Make up application from foundation to eyeliner flick. And emails, and emails and, ‘Yeah, I’m on my way in now’ and ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, I hope you feel better soon’ and ‘I’ll see you tonight, love you, we need milk’. How was your weekend, how was…

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I’m so tired.  I shamble over the ridge, looking down at the town below – faded pink and yellow lights, and the distant shrieks and cries of people passing through an hour’s worth of inebriated contentment with the world.  Heels, frocks and stockings.  I knew them all once, threw them aside with abandon, fishnets simmering and smoking over a naked lamp.  I knew cherry lipstick, greasy hair and morning breath that tasted so sweet to a loser.  Now, the words weigh heavy on my eyelids.  There’s too many to say and not enough to write.  So I turn my back on the town and stumble under a black sea.

I sit down on a lump of stone and look across at a sepia photograph of a landscape I once knew, where wingless birds flitted and buzzed over our heads and you got grass stains on the knees of your tights.  My suit is in tatters – holes in the thighs and fraying at the ankles, the shoulder straps tied into knots to compensate my shrinking waist.  The soles of my boots flap like gossip.  My face doesn’t feel water anymore and any kind of emotion cracks the skin like underfired clay.

I haven’t slept since 1991 and I refuse to as long as your face keeps appearing.  Sometimes you approach me in a street where the pavement is lit from below; the road is covered in glass over deep pits that cars carefully drive over.  Sometimes I am standing in a park playing with my daughter as my love takes pictures of us both smiling and giggling and I see you standing in between two trees; silent and faintly reverberating so the trunks shimmer like in a heat mirage.  Sometimes you’re on a billboard as I’m driving along the highway as a rancid little seventeen year old with slicked back hair and a leather jacket twelve years too big for me, usually adveristing chewing gum or hairspray.  Sometimes you’re just a rumour –  a pair of familiar initials carved into a tree that bleeds red, and a forest that suddenly erases all the paths and leaves me suffocated under a dark canopy, easy prey for the wolves.

Let he who casts the first stone…. well, fuck it.  I have nothing to lose.  I’m casting it.  So I pick up a fragment of the lump I’m sitting on and I hurl it into the black landscape, hoping to shatter the pane that stands between me and my freedom.  I want to see the light beyond.  I throw it so hard I feel my back click out of place.  I throw it so hard a nerve pinches from the back of my head down to my knee.  I throw it and let out a scream that rips the dry skin at the corners of my mouth as the invisible crowd below me in their soft, candy floss ocean, let’s out a roar in tandem with an event they will never see…. never understand.

The rock falls unseen into the void below.  As if in response a brisk wind whips around my legs and I stretch my arms out waiting to fly.  But nothing happens.  Something is trickling onto my jawbone.

Time to try and sleep again.  The grass looks soft here and the night is warm.  No one will disturb me so I don’t bother trying to find shelter.  Eventually the lights of the town will go out.  The wailing voices will go silent one by one like hypothermia victims after a shipwreck.

I sit back down; just a silly man in a bad suit.


Henna always takes my breath away. Fearless, frank and fucking exquisite.

Murder Tramp Birthday

Bopia by tudvaseva-sashasource

They say a love like ours is a tragedy in the making, a bud refusing to blossom, the sound of a wave before it hits shore. You’re not a savior but more of a wound that won’t stop festering, a chasm across which I tie bridges of weeds; tansy, peony, sage and yarrow. I place my tongue on the sharp lining of your hip bone and the clawed shadows in your eyes flutter awake. You’ve never been touched by a man, nor have I ever laid my hands on borrowed skin, but boundaries crack as we move in perfect sync, as if rocked by the arms of the sea. I catch your moans as they leave your lips, clenching them in my hand to taste them later. Bury my face in your hair and think of all the people who bowed to you, how carelessly you took the lives of…

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Let Me Yell

“I want to drink without a hangover and love without needing to be loved in return but life doesn’t work that way does it. Well it could work in small doses but that’s no fun at all.”


I flop on the bed and think about him sneaking his hands under my robe but shove that idea because lately I can’t figure out who’s who and then I’m like who am I. And then I just get tired and go to sleep without writing a thing. I dreamed we snuggled and he ate tacos. It’s funny because I never eat in my dreams but he did. And when the voices in my head get real bad he used to let me yell at em or he’d make some silly inside joke and they’d all drift away into the night where I came from. Which means we, the voices and I, have reunited. And now my writing never seems good enough. And my face is too fat. I look in the mirror and squeeze my abs. Then turn to the side and twerk a little bit. I pinch the fat…

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The Ghost of X

“I’m not sad, I rarely am, just sensitive to these moments I once so often took for granted.”

S. K. Nicholas


In a pet store off the beaten track, I catch my breath and take in the shade. Frogs are popping on the sidewalk, their manky guts plastered all over my scuffed shoes. Dizzy and drunk, some young sort eating an ice cream gave me the eye, and as I gazed at her mouth, she purposefully stuck her tongue into the vanilla scoop and looked at me in the cruellest of ways. She knew I wanted her. Knew that I was just a man like all the others, and as easy as that, she became some vast mural painted across the landscape with colours so vivid they would’ve made Van Gogh and Rothko tremble in their graves. Letting my eyes linger on her a while longer, she gave me a shy half-smile before disappearing into a crowd waiting at a set of traffic lights. Wiping sweat from my forehead with the…

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untitled- Daffni Gingerich

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

On the edge of the room his hands tighten around my neck. That is when I have so much to say. Finding words is a fragile thing for me. And when my eyes cross everything flits away along with my energy. I am silence. Death taunting him for just a sip of his…. The race. The cow on her side swollen still milking. Drained with history. With talks of saving the world. I feel my eyes twitch behind the lids. I see the men I’ve danced into the bedroom for proof. For proof of my existence. I exist I exist I EXIST. Then I don’t. Not anymore. Not lifefull or lifeless. Silenced. Floating. Not suffering/just quiet. And when they apply the straps to hold me down my heart pounds speak speak speakValium- 10mg administered at 2:45am by TJspeak speak speakValium- 10mg administered at 3am by TJ Restraints applied-…

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Coming soon: Sudden Denouement Anthology Volume I

We’re herrrrreeee….

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

Anthology Cover clean

“One of the delights of this collection is the sheer diversity of voices, unconstrained, with differing syntax, forms, loss of form, deliberate omissions and styles, one moment you are reading a condensed prose-poem about the origin of life, the next a confessional bleeding rip from the heart about love and drugs. Nowhere else in modern collections have I found such a mélange of tongues, all begging questions, responses, emotions, some disgust, horror, desire. Volume 1 is a true kaleidoscope of the human experience, doused in realism and the phantasmagoric with absolutely no brake fluid.”                                                                                                                …

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