...

…sometimes I hear an orchestration in a song…it swallows me, rolls me like a wave…sinks me deep…drowns me long enough to borrow my existence for a fraction of time…and I get to own a corner of a deep water trench…a space within the song is temporarily mine, amongst the instrumental fluidity…I reside…I temporarily die a deep-sea anomaly…I write a tale beyond any voice…no palate nor teeth no tongue…I am sound and my hearing loss…divinely mated…and in my ears, years of words I didn’t catch…are caught in a net…and the wave that rolls me, is the same that gives my hand reach…towards the surface…to extract these words and piece together sentences…incoherent masterpieces of my life… …and when all I’m left with are pulses and memories of sounds that sing my dreams while asleep…I’ll have that abyss and that net and the words that slipped into silence…and I’ll morph from ocean trawler to river spinner…I’ll spider myself…I’ll quicksilver my body, building a diving bell…I’ll web words beneath green…destructible designs of mortality…I’ll await the inevitable collapse, and rise of my free will…and I’ll do so in words that escaped me…my daily grind…my gain…to give voice to what I no longer can hear, but profoundly feel…

E.A. O'Connell

Hyacinth Blue: A Gothic Work {Edit}

She woke with Hyacinth on Her tongue:

Beneath a sky of equal hue, a plain of infinite saturation

Birthed of grounded flames, rose smoke from a winter garden’s pyre

~a March wind gave shift~

The sky, masquerading as a butcher’s blood flecked apron, upon which red tails were wheeling

left shadow threads in Her aqueous humour, like fingers smearing their duty

Piano keys in hammer and caress, from a rain rotted porch, gave hymn to the hatchet, as it forced through the block

The trickle of the thin stream, quietly fattened in winter’s last melt

Sunny lambs gave a mama warning bleat, as the grass splintered under a slow uneven weight

His shadow stormed Her frame

~a cell of expectation unlatched Her lips~

from them Hyacinth blue speech, as intriguing as the cool lit center of a match...

“Walk”

Her bare feet, out of step with His heavy black boots

His eyes of clouded white, gave stare to Her throat

His salivating tongue, pressed to the back of His teeth

{a gash-burning touch ~ the claw scratch of enamel}

Rough pronged vulture wings circled hungry, screaming their pangs into a silvered silence

His eyes and neck, in turn to seek their angle, to sniff out the carcass of their want

~such a curious fool, such covetous rot~

Her hand, a quick release, the hatchet slicing through the breeze, embedding within His malformed skull

~an eclipse of laughter unlatched Her lips~

from them Hyacinth blue speech, as precise as the pressed hem of Her funeral dress...

“No”

The rise of Her arms,

{sweeping downward, stretching backward, floating forward, to pause at a calm shoulder height, before slowly resting at Her side}

called forth the vultures, talons scarring the earth, as they circled His body, nodding and dancing their gratitude, before lacerating the fabric of His bones

Retrieving Her hatchet, and a serrated stone, She gripped the aged handle within Her left palm

With Her right, She carved a single hatch-mark, giving company to the great many that came before

Eyeing the boneyard, where all remains of Demise are discarded, His to be so rewarded

She wrapped the skirt of her dress about Her left hand, wiping semi-clean Her hatchet, and right palm 

Turning, She walked the path of bent and beaten grass, returning to Her daily toil at the block 

humming to herself a melody of Hyacinth blue, as translucent and fluent as the flight pattern of a cabbage moth, in early June

Her song, interwoven with temple bells, as a feral cat gave chase to a rabbit, upon dormant beds of vegetation

Her hatchet, in echoing pulse, rhythmed a visitor’s one-way welcome... 

...

E.A. O'Connell