BLANK EPITAPH – A.G. Diedericks

a blank epitaph enshrined

in dust

blooms coal-black petals

of which her lovers pluck

one by one – here, ‘neath the seeds of repent

where requiems are born

beyond sound

beyond science

delineated in a still-life of an

open house

where she hangs

safe from the perversion

of words

absurdists have long tried

to unbolt

that which led her into

this refurbishment of memory

where she levitates

like an obstinate ghoul

taking refuge in the velvet underground.

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Frankenstein’s Bastard – A.G. Diedericks

Richard Rothwell’s portrait of Mary Shelley ~ 1840
Frankenstein’s Bastard

I malformed
from aborted bloodbaths
to bite the hands
of a kleptomaniac midwife

Dear Frankenstein

Do I,
embolden your bestial apathy
with my woes?
Am I,
merely a pantomime
for the parochial aristocracy?

fated to this warped pestilence — the stench of patricide gestates in my throat

My heart is a contaminant; an abberation that anchors the intonation of a lover’s gaze

felicity dwindles in my wake,
it dare not breach
the elongated visage of my
consumption

I am shrouded
by an opulent darkness
that fosters the penury of my soul

there’s no alienist for what lives inside of me

My bones scythe a fissure in empiric science

I am the reification of death:
cobbled by inviolable skin
with ears to inoculate the
incantation of an exorcist
My iris blackens the convex of your erstwhile sun

Halcyon birds

Plummets where i walk

. . .

Dear Frankenstein

You, who molded me from madness;
map me a path to digress from this
metastasized matter
place me in an era,
where the kinship of poetry
have not forsaken me
Where even I,
tread with shadows bereft

Who Am I? – A.G. Diedericks

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Self-proclaimed, self-aggrandizing
self-published, selling yourself
for a shot at infamy – you still have it in for me

Who am I?
you ask sheathed in traced
stanzas
words languished by voracious artifice
remixed for myopic consumers
I watch you milk death and brand it catharsis; canvassing for the masses

I am an intervention
I cook doubt like a junkie and drip it slowly..

into your marrow

I rip you away from your warm bed
and leave you stripped naked
on the side of the road; chalked
out of line
As I drain your ink & slip back down into the gutter
like a rat
blowing an inaudible whistle

Who am I?
I’m the Punkture gaping your ego
an aberrant- carved
out of failure & disappointment
I bask in rejection
while you prance around with
counterfeit applause

Who am I?
I’m the fucking TRUTH

A BRIMFUL OF GRIM 2 – A.G. Diedericks & Kindra M. Austin

glenn-close-on-fatal-attraction

He is the rain on a cold grey day—

the arthritis that ravages my bones

and when he breathes, it’s a Nor’easter wind—

I’m blown apart; shattered;

scattered; kicked about like autumn leaves,

dead

 

Unwritten letters from our post-mortem breathe life into her apparition

Like the weather; she returns to season fresh wounds

Blood pressure tantamount to a volcanic mountain; she hikes my temperature

 

Fuego, fuego! I give him fever; raze his green earth

while he does freeze mine

I exhale phantoms in billowing bursts

and weep for the fugitive memories

 

Her frosted ribcage collides with the arson in my heart; two souls, cremated

We paint every town red;

Ours is a match that burns all bridges

We’re on a road to revive the great depression

 

Ghouls are we without restitution—

to Hell with intuition

Gods warring are we without resolution—

fuck the institution

 

I suck on his brimstone,

a brimful of grim, and he grins with Cheshire teeth

tucked tightly in his head

 

With us there’s no cease fire; no coalition

Be it life or death, our ashes will always blow in the same direction


You can read Part 1 here:  Brimful of Grim Part 1.


Kindra M. Austin can be read here: poems and paragraphs.]
&
A. G. Diedericks can be found passed out in a dark alley somewhere behind Morality Park

HOLLYWOOD HIGH – A.G. Diedericks & Samantha Lucero

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Heathers and jocks, flock together
You and I tethered to Glocks & black
leather
Clocks broken, shot
into a myopic future
We meditate on bloodlust
of a murdered adolescent reverie,
besotted with living forever
The colour of Mondays changed
when I tasted the insidious guile on
your lips; glossed in Carrie-red
you needn’t incentivize this perilous
heart of mine
for you I would cut off my misanthropic
parchment
and illuminate the dark matter
’cause all that I bleed
is you

coiling in a house where hymns burn
hair
damp or dirt, or fire walk with me.
daddy is a watershed in dallas, mommy
is a wire hanger bent out of shape.
the world is an open wound,
and i am the trace.
you are the knife and the wail.
the wide awake.
the boulevards red myths, sight and
sense,
names in squirming lights, and seeds
on the flashing ground.
west coast skinned knees
elastic mouths and bodies
oily eyes in topaz and
gold canines in the skyline.

Ghosting their covenant of wisdom
Parked at the intersection of
dusk & dawn
Up on Mulholland Drive
We succumb to its lecherous stratosphere
with Hotel California on the radio
lighting smokes out of a trophy of ashes and tossing it into a hedonist zephyr
as L.A.P.D sirens start to sing in the background
Our fingerprints dusted by
the Chinese Theatre…
Hollywood as our alibi

you can see the wit of vanishment in a
wag of night
spirit and vein and wet, the pacific
rehearsing
my longtime name in the paunch of a
sand dollar where
a lover’s walk will stall with age and
wilt.
with the creek of it to your auricle, it’ll
sail in your ear.
but we are bionic serfs in an electric
city,
cordoned by chapters and eyes
sallower in the dark
dark, dark. can we pry open the
stillborn to find landmarks.
how deathlike are the lights.

Pop culture studies us
The media pine for answers
Clogged with a 60 minute survey
– Did their parents love them?
– Do they have a mental illness?
We side-step their clichés
and break the fourth wall;
Gravitating to the camera with verve
’cause we had a cause to be caustic
when faced with their plastic personas
stalking Beverly Hills fat cats
like taxidermists
And we won’t depart until our followers up stage Manson
Charles or Marilyn, it’s all the same in Tinseltown
where we carve out billboards
with a paramount question…
Why do you fear the children you’ve raised?

to be continued…


 

A.G. Diedericks: “write what you know” are the four most soporific words I’ve ever heard. I am a divergent writer who couldn’t give 2 fucks about striving to be the best. To write only what you know, is to play it safe. Art is imaginative rebellion. I am engaged with the versatile risk takers, the ones who are not afraid to take their shoes off & get dirty.  I write here. ]

&&

[Samantha Lucero writes books and poetry, short stories, is a historian, heathen and philosophically speaking, an absurdist. Sisyphus being the ultimate example of the absurdity of human existence. She occasionally writes things at sixredseeds.]

A BRIMFUL OF GRIM – A.G. Diedericks & Kindra M. Austin

 

I walk the streets, brimful of grim

a former empath, deformed

with a Stephen Hawking-sized

black hole in my chest

 

At night I chisel the cemetery of us

blurred visions leave my veins with an incision

I siphon the blood back into our old skeletons

reprieve my solitude

 

The moon is a phantasm—

a projection of you

Your cold white face casts shadows

of me against these cobblestone streets

and up the sides of Tudor buildings—

I am a colossus,

brimful of grim

 

In an L.A. riot, I lie quiet

under a monochrome sun,

and listen to the unison of us—the way we were, uncanny

The earth vibrates underneath me; defibrillator, ascertain my heartbeat

 

Ever since you left, every woman I meet plays her part in a ménage

á trois with your mirage

Cosplay lovers;

I think you would love the homage

 

The sun’s beams envelope me,

a yellow shroud melting

Saturate my winter soul—

memories of you coagulate

in my arteries, thick cholesterol

You are my heart disease

I crave the taste

 

Insatiable, the revenant of you

I climb into your climate

A masochist, unable to resist—tie me up, let me hang,

suspended in the mist of you

 


For more of Kindra’s work, please visit poems & paragraphs

As for A.G.. you can find more of his work here

When You Understand – The Stories In Between

And sometimes we adopt these casualties as if they were our own, in the darkest of times, during the only thing we know as real. Finally we struggle to give it away but the most painful of realizations is the moment when we understand this is ours to keep. I will open your eyes to the death of innocence. There is a truth in my anger, an outstretched grasping hand. There is little sympathy in this place, and even less understanding. We are all washed as clean as we can get. But save the dirt and praise tomorrow because it all makes no difference.

Do you want me to really show you something? Really? Because I can. But you may not like what you see. If you want me to, I can turn this whole thing inside out and pull what you thought was reality away, piece by broken piece, then maybe, just maybe, you might have something to say.

 


More from this author can be found at The Stories In Between

GEMINI— ELI KYOKO

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You say, my newborn face dwells only in the frames of your ancient house,

and my purity was left in my mother’s womb and arms

So now, you try to cleanse me with your precious soap

Scour… Scrub… Rub…

and then you conceal me with lotion, some powder, more perfume!

And yet some more, make me sore

Chafed. Excoriated. Distorted.

But I am the one who chokes on all the bitter pills you have to swallow

I am the one who burns your cigarettes as I varnish your thoughts,

and engrave your soul within my poetry

whilst you hide along its dusky alley

I am the one who can assemble your back like a jigsaw puzzle

I know your true colors, your soft spots

I know how to get you down on your knees

I know how we collide in the dark

For I’ve memorized the pieces and the layers of you,

and I’ve traveled the twisted lines on your spine too

I reside within your core, within the crevices of your bones

I am the scabs on your wounds, the callus on your fingers, the dust in your hair,

your best keeper

I am your shadows and I linger like the smell of cigarettes on your damp skin

Oh, my dearest self!

Stop excavating your flesh for my corpse

‘Cause I’m never ever gonna be away,

So—

Eat me whole.

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© Image from Brooke Shaden Photography

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First published on Eli Kyoko’s personal blog: Moonlit Pieces.

She’s dressed in black from head to toe…