Magnolia petals of aurora blush, their wilted edges bitten and rusted; release and spiral in soft early breaths, to their end they pool in prismatic dimensions…luscious…overlapping in depths of sueded intentions; a tooth for bite and vernal lore, bewitch all senses and siren bare toes, to dip beneath the sun drenched surface…blinded…stepping, crawling into an Ophelia repose; and all that stirs is the drowning perfume of reminiscence, at the corner of her eyes tears, slipping…interflowing…indistinguishable from her archaic art of tongue; on a wall suffocated by latticed vines, Persephone writes sonnets to Hades in hues of immortality

E. A. O'Connell. April 15, 2021.

Someday may never rise in opalescence, nor the soft down of evanescent grey…someday…the construct of whimsy and longing…an entity of insincerity, a ghastly nightmare galavanting as the sum of all parts, amorphous in existence and mocking in familiarity…someday…a construct of fairy tales and the formidable ever after, deceptive and destructive…but Today…ahhh Today…where the Witching hour drapes me in velveteen voices and gossamer strands…where I am synonymous with the end, and yet, still outliving time…where a chorale of colours prisms my mind and gilded edged cards call my sentient name in geometric forms…for I exist on the fevered breath, grazing blood lusting fangs, in an honouring of the milky white moon…

E. A. O'Connell. March 26, 2021.

Winds thrash, howling a wanting song that wraps about her head, playing chaos in a spiraling fugue about her body, robbing her of all modesty, silhouetted skeletons backlit by western sky downing, shiver the timbre mimicking the sensations running her spine, a blushing moon in full, ascends in metered time with the descent to her knees, her eyes the star flecked abysm, beholding his advancing darkness, the lipstories he spun from rising action through climax to resolution, fuse their mouths with flame and sin, their hands running curves and dips, as planchettes giving voice to desires and devilry, giving into dysequilibrium and pleasure

E. A. O'Connell. January 29, 2021.

{Excerpt of a View}

 …I turn from the passenger window, a blur of wilderness in oceanic hues, the secreted capsule beneath my tongue, gives me impulse to crack it between my teeth and let the contents drain down my throat…my teeth grind, I’m holding onto something that’s no longer mine…I turn to the driver, contemplate his profile, feel my impulse shift to my fingers, a singular twitch, I shift my position until it’s the back of his head that has my attention, enrapt with deeds, clandestine and sinful…The moon, an eclipse of emotionless inquisition, howls at the back of my eyes, hollows of ruin, and I submit to the darkness…I clasp my hands to his eyes, ‘It’s time,’ he takes his hands from the wheel, his weight on the accelerator, to get as much distance from his passenger, he ignores her…words and flesh…she’s a phantoglyph, a memory in horrific figure, an unwinding of mental fitness…but he believes he can out run her, he can secret a portal of escape in the speed and immediacy of a head on collision…she laughs a hallowed tone, and eases back into her seat, as comfortable with his death as she is her own…he sets his sights and tenses, as she lights up and inhales an incense of clove and brimstone clouding the raw salt air…the impact phases her not, leaving him a rotted waste that she tsks at, “foolhardy imbecile,” she vacates the wreckage, standing beside his corpse of bad decisions, she clutches the ill-fitting flesh at the back of his neck, and drags his dead weight from self-destruction, down upon the unforgiving earth, and through her ever advancing steps towards his reckoning…

{Excerpt Of A View} E. A. O'Connell. January 17, 2021.

My telescopic eye captured at the forefront of an abandoned night sky, clear of clouds and absent of celestial bodies, His stoic silhouette, firm in meditation. His body a deeper shade of sound. His feet planted upon ghostly earth. His back the burgeoning shower of thought illuminated in starlight. My voice, ill-fitted with language, escaped on a sigh, stolen by Zephyrus to the heighth of sequoia, where it was lost amongst vixen screams and screech owl trill. Ill-fated. His proximity gained distance at my intrusion. His matter vibrated and scattered at my hand in attempt, leaving a tenebrous pool of escape. I’d scream into the nothingness, a ripple upon His surface would suffice. All too aware of my place. I opt instead to swallow my tongue and resume my four seasoned silence. Taking to the wilds of my nature, I let free my devils, I commune within my shadow, and walk the well worn path towards the cold light of the moon.

E. A. O'Connell. August 20, 2020.

The propofol hit my vein with a swelling pain that pulled my eyes to the back of my right hand, my concentration on the blooming fire that took me under to a waiting room of slow flowing silence and dove walls…immobile…incoherent thoughts…and then laughter pulled me towards a yellow haloed white light…bound in my anesthesia…a gurney rushed breeze and the laughter echoing a corridor, off walls or off my mind?… …laughter, the unceasing laughter, and the nurse’s question pulling me from the dark of my eyelids…Who’s with you?… …the laughter, days later, still haunts the back of my thoughts… …laughter not my own…

E.A. O'Connell. August 19, 2020

{Excerpt}

Pall of mine, a thin overlay of navy linen wedded to my curves as funerary fine to a third degree murder. At the Moon’s behest, my eyes are prised open, allowing Venus’s light to glint as dancing spectres in my periphery. At the Sun’s bidding, my eyelids are drawn shut, obsidian mirror orbs take residency at my pineal eye, alien and all knowing, they meld into one before receding. At His summons, the commonplace shadows of night convene as a gallery within his surgical theatre. He draws back my cover, revealing me bare, a cavity of absence where my heart once echoed of anticipation and trepidation at proximity. A resounding silence, weighted with need, draws His finger to my lips, pulling a slow deliberate line to my sternum, where His hand splays. Bending to my ear, He whispers in a cicada percussion, the silence of my cavity commencing a serpentine coil, thickening a knot of roots and vines, replicating an anatomical heart. His luring call, brings hover flies to imbibe of my humid flesh. His seductive song, the warmth that stirs a rising from the roots to my ribs, the discarding of earthbound flesh for wings, and my own bewitching song of reply. He calls forth a shadow, its arachnid precision of silk, stitching shut my flesh. A second is dispatched to the far reachings of the night, where it draws the curtains of the theatre, closing us off from all spying eyes, as I recover my sentient bearings in the face of His want.

E. A. O'Connell. August 14, 2020.