E.A. O'Connell. 10/26/2014. Pete's Produce.
… I am the pause… the sensation… the inhalation of wanting lungs… the nebula of eyelids before they rise… the catch in chords as a heavy word is spoken… the conception of a thought upturning the corners of a mouth… I am the hum of prairie white noise building a nocturne… an all encompassing silence… and my silence is louder than a thousand dead oceans and an eternally moonless sky… (All work is copyrighted)
Monday, October 27, 2014
Tuesday, October 21, 2014
The Watchmen (A Gothic Tale)
Clockwise click of the crow's
tongue in fives
Sister Twilight rolls her tongue in purring esophageal quakes
Five eyes keep guard of life—a sixth : dead of light—follows shadows of after-breath
Church bell casts sounding sinking seas at cliff depths ragged
Diving swallows in atmospheric scratch striation fray the night
Skeletal leaves fracture in cyclonic fury
Releasing sweet decaying smolder beneath silent heel crush
Sister Silence snaps at star fury hushed in ashen cloud clasp
Brothers bow as She winds her way along ancestral earth breath
Through wrought gate pocked with seasons of wrath and seasons of lust
To the roots gnarled in marriage with moss laden grave mounds
Where the crows in murder repose slacken their tongues
And in angular tones chant, "She comes"
Leaping—claws freeing—bodies descending
Moon in silhouette frosts an absent sky
From copper scented dirt they swell as one—his rise—her blood beating his pulse upon her drums
She watches as he breathes, wings stirring soul rust from his spectral frame
And to him she speaks, "Again"
E.A. O'Connell
Sister Twilight rolls her tongue in purring esophageal quakes
Five eyes keep guard of life—a sixth : dead of light—follows shadows of after-breath
Church bell casts sounding sinking seas at cliff depths ragged
Diving swallows in atmospheric scratch striation fray the night
Skeletal leaves fracture in cyclonic fury
Releasing sweet decaying smolder beneath silent heel crush
Sister Silence snaps at star fury hushed in ashen cloud clasp
Brothers bow as She winds her way along ancestral earth breath
Through wrought gate pocked with seasons of wrath and seasons of lust
To the roots gnarled in marriage with moss laden grave mounds
Where the crows in murder repose slacken their tongues
And in angular tones chant, "She comes"
Leaping—claws freeing—bodies descending
Moon in silhouette frosts an absent sky
From copper scented dirt they swell as one—his rise—her blood beating his pulse upon her drums
She watches as he breathes, wings stirring soul rust from his spectral frame
And to him she speaks, "Again"
E.A. O'Connell
Thursday, October 16, 2014
Silhouette of Late Hours
In the dark you stood,
silhouette of late hours,
yet unmistakable.
I followed every movement,
your arms clasping your
chest,
as hinges sang the opening
of Pandora’s box.
From you spilled stars,
in constellations
unfamiliar,
some anxiously hummed
pins and needles,
—spreading—
others layered in
iridescent thought,
—coiled—
I held out my fist,
turning it skyward,
open and speaking in full
moonlight,
as your tide of stars swelled and rose,
the force of their being
pulling us close.
We were infinite in ourselves,
burning brighter in the
closing of distance,
until we,
flesh on flesh,
were engulfed in flames of
righteous bliss.
E.A. O'Connell
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