spaces tightly recede – samantha lucero

one of the last poems i might ever write.

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

i’m unhurt here; deeply wrapped inside this ill-starred cell.

chaste of catching time in its seeping hoards
that worm, or unpolluted by the
lightless nature of breath in my
anemic boat

i can oar inside this fervid pulse where
i’m electrically prolonged
inside that silky wave
the wistful
scene i’ll dream
and dream again

where life unearths
or perhaps, i wince and the spaces
tightly recede

and though i sink into an oily red
womb of her fastenings
i won’t dream of an appalling life
when i hiccup or pirouette my shaping
limbs to arrive at this
eternal return

of what

none outside this narrow pool
can dream or know, i’ll dream;

put me back into that blood
that last drowsy warmth
of my eyes yawned shut
before the first scream.

to sleep and sleep and finally sleep!


Samantha Lucero writes at sixredseeds.

View original post

Advertisements

part 4

12 hours ago

 

He’d raised the toy up to eye level and inspected its cylindrical shape and strange writing and holographic paper stuck around the circle of its body with one eye squinted. He’d turned around the noisy confetti in the kaleidoscope and peered through himself first to test it out, and then took it down to the toddlers eye level and pulled him close lovingly the way a brother or father would.

He’d piped out an elongated Mickey mouse, wooooow! for effect, and his tickling beard wowed with him. He’d patted baby Mikey on his bony shoulder.

Isn’t that cute, Miranda had said, perching her soap-chapped knuckles onto the hew of her hips, he likes you, Gabe.

The sound of keys and the sound of the keys’ metallic intercourse with the door had arrived, and the doorknob was thrust, flopping, in need of repair too long ago. Gabriel was agile and out of Miranda’s window before mom could’ve sworn she’d heard something. Bye bye dada, baby Mikey had said.

Miranda, is dinner ready? Mom creaked in her slurred voice with that bubonic black hair rheumy with the wet of work.

And yet Gabriel dared back through the dirty Disney sheet-curtains thumb tacked over the bedroom window and implored of Miranda a farewell kiss before he’d gone back out into the dusk with a groan.

Miranda had whisper shouted, Seeya later, as he’d run into the firmament of cricketing trees where he was embraced by an intruding dark.

 

to be continued …

PART 3

 

TRAILER PARK

To a child all things rise. Mother rises in the morning when the sun rises. The moon rises and mom and baby go to sleep. Miranda would rise to feed him. The dead girls name was Miranda and she never rose today, and baby Mikey wondered why his sister never trickled in with the sun as she usually did with it thrilling through her saltwater hair like a bright comb.

He faintly recalls a damp kiss on his temple between alphabet dreams, but she never rose with him. He was so hungry now he’d cried and made duck noises and horse noises he’d learned from the toy in his broken bed next to Miranda’s empty one.

Real mother staggered in belated expecting that Miranda had fed baby Mikey.

Where the fuck is Miranda? Mom squawked too loud in her talon-voice, and baby Mikey flinched.

Baby Mikey made a cat noise and then said, bye bye dada, because he’d also dimly recalled his toy making an opaline of harmonious colors and grinning like a kitten kneading fat and seeing Miranda’s friend with a beard; all men with beards are dada, but he’s too young to explain.

to be continued … 

part 2

 

NEW ORLEANS:

Morning rose and the wallowing sun divulged trace litters of a lady’s’ under things and a stringy rip of shredded denim. The evidence was fixed up in a concrete drainage ditch by a humid water line, with alien pale rocks that jutted out circling it like delegates from the moon and carefully placed on top the tatters to keep them from disturbance.

When the nutria scattered after having nibbled at coagulated blood spots dry and sweet to them like hard candy, they’d arrived. A set of shadows, which frowned and overlooked the mystery pile like mourners hovering over a peeled casket.

But where’s the body, one asked, yellow lettering dramatically over the heart of her windbreaker spelled out the words S-T-A-T-E and P-O-L-I-C-E. She shifted and bent her knees to crouch and lean over it thoughtfully, making the chunky coat swish and her arthritic knees click. She grimaced as if the evidence could spring up and shout BOO.

We don’t even know if this is hers, the other one says sardonically in his gloomy suit.

Detectives, a voice asks from behind, come have a look at this.

 

to be continued …

Just Released! Anthology Volume I: Writings from the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

The Sudden Denoument Literary Collective is thrilled to announce the release of Anthology Volume I: Writings for the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective!  This long-awaited anthology is a thoughtfully curated compendium of the best writing published online by the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective from its launch in August of 2016 through April 2018. It includes 138 pieces of cutting-edge poetry, prose and short fiction written by 29 diverse writers from England, Romania, Japan, India, Finland, the United States and Canada. Thirty-one of the 138 pieces were written exclusively for the Anthology. This volume captures the astonishing raw power of these individual and united poetic voices.

Now available on Amazon.com and Amazon.com.uk

View original post

part 1

There’s a girl and a gust of wind and the house she left behind. A pale yellow house with mold in the corners and babies with fevers, and cigarette smoke in her nose and on the walls of her room, in her hair and in her bed sheets, and on the outside in the humid world beyond the broken door she crept out of at 2am.

They looked for her in the pastures and in the nooks, in the neck of the woods that smell green and lush and watery, and they looked up as if she might be in a tree staring down at them, but they never did find her.

 

to be continued …

i will be posting a short story in micro-posts… if that’s even a term. if it isn’t i’ve invented it just now so i’ll sue you if you steal it (if you’re rich). it’s a short story, perhaps not the last, about a murder. it’s horror. what i mean by micro-posts is that i plan to tell it in 2-3 paragraph posts over time. you’ll see.

i’m using this as a method to combat some semi-severe writers block/depression. i say semi, because at times i can write and write and it just comes to me as if odin is wafting and apollo is purring. other times (more often than not lately) i stare forward to a blank page or scan several sentences of notes and wonder why life exists at all and why i’m still here. yes, i have major depressive disorder but don’t worry, this isn’t unique for me–i’m an existential nihilist.

i’ll keep telling my micro-story until it’s over or until i get sick of it. i have several poems i’ve worked on and i think are terrible, so i haven’t put them over on sudden denouement or even on here. thus, the utter silence on my blog. i’ve also worked on my other book, another secret project (way in the future), and sent out some query letters for my novel. since it’s my first book and it probably sucks i might just self publish it, but i figured why not try a little? i only just sent the letters out. we’ll see.

Meet Sudden Denouement Collective Member Samantha Lucero

i did a thing where i answered a questionnaire.

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

The editors of Sudden Denouement Literary Collective know that our strength is our writers. We hope that you enjoy getting to know them through our new Writer Interview Series.

What name do you write under?
My poetry and short stories are under Samantha Lucero.

In what part of the world do you live?
Super cowboy USA Hot Dog Rocket Ship Number One.

Tell us about yourself. 
According to BuzzFeeds, “What Batman villain are you?” quiz I’m the Joker. Some people just wanna watch the world burn.

 Where do you publish your work?
six red seeds

When did you begin your blog and what motivated you start it?
Few years ago after hoarding short stories, half-finished novels, poems, screenplays, graphic novels, dead bodies, teeth, cat skulls, I decided to create a centralized location to dump it all. Believing that it would function more as a private sanctum and a way to…

View original post 561 more words

1.

[one of mine originally posted on SD. for some reason, the reblog is fucking up.]

giphy-2.gif

a city map is sewn in the scalp;
looped in the goat-milk, or spit out,
tongued in silky blades of stomped
down grass.

i’m crowned with high-pitched fingers
clenched in fur.
in octaves only shades can bear, i simmer
in their holy cradles.
i become the roughened corner of a mouth
grinning at its own joke.

there, the receding home in ranch-style polaroid’s of a dirty blond stranger and my mother squinting in the sun; some home not mine or yours.

ventricles, which
in a woman’s left grows tiny,
and in a man’s more supple.
i keep alive by milking goats.

some like lifelines, some like ulcers
the city streets are braided in my hair.

samantha lucero 2018 ©

 

la tristesse durera toujour

default.jpg

i was in a dirt hole or clasped on
a napping road-trip road.
palpitating thru the lines or bones
on the ground, or underneath.

i found her heart in a rat pile
flapping like loose mother-skin
grieving with the last milk oval
on the whelps tongue.

are above me, like you
in a circlet of whore-stars,
maniacal with
teeth for deep space.
a belligerent isolation embraces
me and i am born in bright black.

i stare into the sun and when i
shut my eyes, it winks back
and it will never leave.

my love was a thousand shells
in salt on earth. i was the killing jar.

the beat of sunflower wings
in cement initials.

 

samantha lucero 2018 ©