You Were Meant to Know the Night Writing Prompt Challenge: Knowing Borne in the Night/Aurora Phoenix

My submission to braveandreckless’ latest writing prompt. Thank you Christine for the thought provoking prompt!

Brave and Reckless

there are those

who know only sunlight

it reflects from the silver spoons

from which they slurp their coddled cream

they are insulated from all pain

by their silk lined ermine wrappings

residual misery absorbed by underlings

assiduous under rug sweepers

leaving them bereft

of moral compass

merest crumbs of compassion.

they are blind,

these sun-dwellers,

having gazed for hours interminable

in fawning rhapsody

upon their own bedazzled


vision blurred

by lack of focus

glancing solely upon pageantry

rhinestone Rodeo rodeos.

my friends, these are not

our vistas. we have careened

brakeless down curvaceous

Sunset Boulevard

– or strutted braless –

quaffing the air’s despair

in great desperate gulps

while our demons

take the wheel.

we have licked the salts of mercury

briny from tormented eyes

with our tongues of fire

tasting essence of fear

and redemption only the night

can portend.  we have crawled

stripped and wounded


View original post 162 more words


Maggot Memoirs

(A response poem to the collaborative piece ‘Shoo, Fly‘ by the amazing Kindra M. Austin and Samantha Lucero, on Sudden Denouement. Be sure to read this stunning piece.)


I recall the apparition.

they squirmed a nauseating mess,

a poltergeist steak on the garage floor.

I puzzle on the number

of maggots that have crawled upon me.


I knew they were flies – in bars and in dorms rooms.

I swatted at the buzz of their egos

in Greek chorus. I was that girl

with the grades and the holey swatter.

I was that girl, brilliant and slightly awkward,

attracting flies as brilliantine

greases fashionista disasters.

I was that girl with fierce four-eyed intent

and dismal coordination, that girl

who looked in the mirror

with inverted beer goggles.

when flies buzzed habitual lies

of beauty and breaktakability

I was entangled in gossamer webs

spun of red perfumed roses,

trips to Paris and hot air

balloon rides. my flyswatter

matted in the webbing.


flies or not, I learned.

I learned control was a pulled down

zipper and me wriggling my way

down the bed and control

was how I wrought their finish

while I still wore my clothes

if not my dignity. I 80’s teased

my hair, not their cocks.


I have no doubt those flies

nestled in Aqua Net nests

leaving me their seed.

I am left maggoty

lo these many years

in the stale beer and hazy afters.

I can feel them crawling on me-

the maggots of those lost girl nights.


some nights I am swarmed

by the maggots that silent whisper

buzzing lies anew, across

generations of girls

Tie your hair up girls

and earn some respect.


I scoop the maggots from my ears

ferret them out

from dark warm mind corners.

I see now the rest of that vision

the hose pulverizing

the quivering worm morass.

it is a fire hose, now,

instrument of salvation, not a grandiose

phallic substitute –

as if, boys! –

and I loose it on the maggot




Bruised and Baffled

tell me this, my sisters:

tell me how we sit

in solidarity

eyes dripping,

empath secretions

in unanimous dis-synchronous


tell me how we bond

in tissue passing intimacy,


shackled together

in chosen

discomfiting disclosures

as we were shackled

hands behind backs,

wrists to waists to ankles,

perpetually to our pasts.

tell me how we ache

in our bosoms,

young and pert

or old and wire-bound,


in each other’s despair,

concrete compendium

  • compelling –

as our nation’s

mandate to incarcerate.

tell me how we applaud

each signpost of survival

amen and hallelujah

symposium cum church chorus

stand in ovation

for humble attestations

to each sisters’

peril fraught journey.

tell me how we embrace

genuine and heartfelt fortitude

and challenge not


in the house.

have we forgotten,

one and all,

Lorde’s caution on systemic change?

do we hammer away

at the masters’ chains

with his hot and hate forged

hammer and anvil?





Red Letters

it was crimson

as my bludgeoned futures

that indelibly inked tattoo

my number

screaming neon epitaph

on the chiseled granite terminus

of membership in polite society.

I scrubbed and dermabraded

bleaching pigment from all skin

in scalding ablutions

I slough off

flawed integument

failed beneficent intentions

peel back scarred gaping flesh

until I stand

grisly and gristled

stripped to creaking bones.

I dress myself in mucilage and plaster

draped in gauzy discombobulation

soak in healing balms

oils of mystical rejuvenation

secreted by Panacea

in deep atrial chambers.

having grown new skin

darkened, disfigured

thick and tough

I dip twisted toes

in edifying milieu

crumple, chagrined

at that shoulder-tap

“aren’t you the one

with that tattoo

the ginormous scarlet F?”




Nom De Guerre – Collaboration of A. G. Diedericks & Aurora Phoenix

Very grateful that my collaboration with A. G. Diedericks is featured today on Sudden Denouement. Many thanks to all the amazing writers of the collective

A Forum for Divergent Literature

in art
I come alive
when I put my pen down
it’s all uncharted territory
obfuscated scriptures
obstruct my script
with indecisions
and honed inhibitions
I vomit
unintelligible words
ineligible to decipher
paralysis in my analysis
a jargon
too far gone
from consciousness
I thrive
in poetic nooks
inhaling the sustenance
of literary lore
I shrivel
when my fingers
relinquish their perch
click-clack pecking the keys
I lose my footing
skid and wander
meandering Neanderthal
grunting monosyllabic
monotonous monotone
bungled from gnarled
arthritic fingertips
aching hips
collide coccyx
insensate sensibilities
in a house of congress
homo sapiens
barred from sapience
I am a refugee
seeking refuge
in the allure
of a nom de guerre

A.G. Diedericks is a cinephile in the midst of being gentrified into a bibliophile.. Colonized by mediocrity; He moonlights as a clandestine writer. You’ll find him in a dark alley over 

View original post 73 more words

Splicing of the Night

it is late and I am weary

yawning on autopilot

the road weaves its spell

as the highway subsumes me

in ribboned monotony.

I am lulled into complaisance

as my wheels eat the miles

and I envision my welcoming bed.

suddenly I am putting myself

to bed in prison – walking

through the frigid doorway

closing the weighty steel door


locking myself in

as if voluntary were anything

beyond an academic construct


the echoing incongruity

of this supposed voluntary act

clangs, clamorous

crashing against me

with every slam of that door

clanking the lock

where I am held, animalian.

I know not what prompted

this memory clip

reverberating and ricocheting

on my drive home –

this drive I know like

the lines in my palm.

it is not a memory I worry

beach glass smooth in my pocket.

this hollow tipped bullet

fired by my subconscious

triggered, perhaps,

in the greeting by the fall

night air, walking out from work.

Past and present are spliced,

Picasso-esqe, in the memory

and mesmerization.

There is indeed, somehow, art

in the fact that I survived –

grotesque and distorted art,

but art nonetheless.

the steel door clangs

behind me no more

and the survival of myself

scabbed and malformed

breeds art

from my wounded


Core Values

I tighten my core

against the assault

foot firmly planted

on my middle

no middle ground

steely resolve hides

obscured under

adipose in repose

I look alive

Look Alive!

but it’s the makeup

and animation

I have long since

lost my composure


I am rotten and maggoty

though smartly dressed

 by erstwhile friends

there is

after all

an esprit de corps

among we corpses