polterheist of the alpha mind {a rework always in progress}

Chairs, ebony and knocked with wear, stack in Escher fascination…on pointe, the precision they spin, slow and methodical, a hypnotic optical delusion of black and sunlight…static builds in the atmosphere and sounds the descent…a waterfall crash…a tempest seat…piano keys and peddle release…

Serpent winds a derisive halo, atop the head of a woman, her womb a pomegranate ripe, her life solitary and defiant…reptilian underbelly slips beneath her palms, through her thighs, winding a return to her throat…forked tense and elliptical divination…it all equates to infinite constriction of her airways…she charcoals a door upon a wall…knocks & knocks to meet no response…she crashes the threshold…honoring herself…

Arachnid chessmen, cloaked in steel wool, stealth in their maneuvering about the disfigured floor…foregoing strategy for mind play…Shadows of men in child fun, run the stairs to find her eye, plastering themselves statue still, stretching and fading…incinerating in the black wick of a candle in slipped inferno…they terrorize the foot of her bed, watching her sleep, absorbing her screams with monstrous paws…leaving her paralyzed as the iron maiden mouth, clasps about her face…her throat welling & choking on the shit she refuses to swallow…leaving her a permanent power from a temporary slip…

{polterheist of the alpha mind}

E.A. O'Connell

...excerpts of thoughts in story {III}

Somewhere in the eigengrau hour, between the scream of a night terror and the sigh of a post mortem body, the cicadas stilled in a birth— stilled in the desiccation of a wound. In their absence, or rather from it, I took up a hum—my cells regenerating and calling to their familiar. In the Devil’s Hour, I heard a seat being taken, and I rolled to the ghost—I spiraled into the fugue. A slip of the tongue—No—A slip of the blade, beckoned me forth from the vapor state of thought. A kitchen…wood grain…paring knife…stainless steel reflection—I painted my blood across the glyphs and stitched my deeper self shut. The hum still creates—still deteriorates—my liberation. I lose myself on concrete and coffee— a straightaway dead ends with brick and mortar, columns and corners. In the shadows, his cigarette scissor fingers, his disheveled, bloodied apron— a butcher sends up smoke signals. I lower my hood, keeping my eyes on his, hiding neither scar, nor thread that lace my neck and face— I make holy, rites with a ceremony of feral instincts—a berserker—internally I'm at war. A second thought—a second glance—I turn toward, and he’s missed nothing, collecting my tells—my intimacy—all with merely his stance and eyeline. Marigolds bloom from my mouth, ruffled manes of sunlight, a dance of skirts masking my misdeeds, but they don’t fool the butcher—who recites an elegy in soft brogue. You know // Aye  The hum bursts the dam, a full blown commotion, chaos and communication—I’m lightning he’s caught in a bottle—I’m no longer impossible—I’m incredible

E.A. O'Connell