The Skrews Poetry Syndication, Issue 004: 2022

By The Skrews Syndication (Editor)

The Skrews Syndication is an independent literary publication that is dedicated to the darker, pain-filled words of poets who've experienced severe adversity, trauma, and tribulation in their lives. While the element of suffering is often held in high esteem in the poetry community, most poets who haven't already created a name go unheard. This publication is here to change this. We are by those, for those, and celebrated by those who are in this very real state of chaos.

Issue 004 (Sultry Apprehensions, 2022), is a collection of forty-nine poems from various amateur poets across the globe. With the global economic fallout from varying events over the last few years, 2022 has been a particularly difficult year for many of us. In respect, these poets have written a wide encompassment of poetry that highlights the subjects of isolation, grief, mental angst, displacement, and much more.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Skrews Syndication
• Release date: Oct 10, 2022

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The Skrews Syndication, Issue 004, 2022The Skrews Syndication Publishing Collective

- 2022 -

The Skrews Syndication

Issue 004, 2022

SUNDRY APPREHENSIONS.

Text copyright © 2022 by the Skrews Syndication. All rights reserved.

Poetry copyrights are held by their respective authors with all rights reserved. Editorial text copyrights are held by L.A. Wyatt © 2022.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without explicit written permission from the publisher.

This book was published digitally in Atlanta, Georgia by the Skrews Syndication Publishing Collective in the year 2022.

Publishing permissions are granted by their holders.

https://loose.skre.ws

Written correspondence can be sent to:

The Skrews Syndication

P.O. Box 781

Cumming GA 30028

All distributor logos are trademarks of their respective companies and affiliates.

Cover design and derivative copyrights © 2022 by Cory Lee. All rights reserved.

SSBN: A7DBFD9C-EE8A-4E07-9D94-07F9688D2967 (Digital)

Originally published in the United States of America

October 2022

First edition

In Respect of

I only wish I could give proper thanks to all of those who've crossed my path, whether digitally or in person, and made the composition of this syndication possible. Most of you, I'll never meet in the flesh. Others, I’ll never see again. Whether you're embarking on your next journey or are just living on the far ends of this world, understand that you have my eternal gratitude. For those who've stuck close by, thank you for your support, love, and friendship; this will never be forgotten. And for the few of you that have been lost, in my heart, I will carry you onwards, forevermore.

Only darkness can bring meaning to the light... for the darkness is a mirror, a mere reflection of luminescence on the other side. Both are meant to be felt, and only when seeing the beauty within the darkness, can one be guided into the light.

From the Editors

I lift my phone out from my pocket; it's a nasty habit I've made over the years. Perhaps it serves to ease my anxiety, but I doubt it really helps. The upwards motion causes the small device to flash the time briefly. 10:26 PM. The skies are dark now, but the commotion on this street brings its own light. Human light. A light from vice and debauchery.

Bourbon Street, you see, or perhaps better to claim the Storyville district as a whole, has been at the forefront of New Orleans hedonism for over a hundred years. And here I stand at the epicenter of all that is gluttonous and pleasing. Music of all genres can be heard booming from the open establishments as I pass. The smell of delicious food is in the air and there are lines of people awaiting entry to backlogged restaurants for proof.

Drunkards of all varieties walk the streets and alleyways, consolidating their numbness into small groups. Mesdemoiselles with fishnet stockings under thin garments of lace show off their proud assets, hoping to attract a temporary feeling of relief later this evening. Young men wearing sailor hats with strings of beads around their necks parade the balconies, hoping for a chance to dispense their faux jewelry to an eager woman below, one agreeable to this type of transaction.

Offers of drugs and prostitutes are presented quickly and dissipate at the same speed once rejected. Some weary individuals establish a rendezvous, rather. With 5-gallon buckets and a tip jar, young children make improvised music, orchestrated by older figures, presumably attempting to make enough money to feed those same mouths. A broken sewage pipe spews out putrid smells, confusing passersby who were originally drawn in by the smells of NOLA cuisine.

With a dainty stroll and my newly accepted nickname Love which was given to me by the local waitstaff, I walk westwardly down the center of the street, keeping my feet aligned with an imaginary midpoint. My eyes bounce from juncture to juncture, observing the unique spectacles of unfamiliar culture unfolding in front of me. A rainbow of neon could likely be seen in the reflection of my eyes.

Minutes turn to hours, and I find my eyes growing weary as the night passes. I pause to rest on the south side of the well-traveled road. Facing the courtyard