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Our bodies linear
limbless and righteous 
amongst the thorns of infantile black locusts 
your eyes of mesonoxian dew
fix as vacant moons
bloodlet atop the sunset 
graves of lilacs
hatchet dismemberment
our earthen anguine forms
my head upon yours
I still
the future withers before me
dead on the vines
never again shall we sip of God’s wine
our cold blood
our venomous love
our thrive and will
undressing 
every memory of renewal
I will not leave your side
I will swallow you whole
make mobile my heart
chimera our souls
I will keep you
memento mori
I will bite, I will writhe
I will keep wild 
ever and a day
lest we cease to exist
of matter or of myth 
My love, Our immortality
come to me
upon the back of Death 
ride forth 
bring with you
a seed of universal knowledge
clasped within your teeth
to plant upon my tongue
with our final kiss

E.A. O'Connell

The Devil's Darning Needle

A dark abyss, 
upon which the offering of petals pale, 
ripple the mirror

The Devil’s darning needle, 
propelled by soulful sighs, 
winds boughs, 
shaking loose a gravitational spiral, 
where He hovers in shallow graves, 
unearthing hair and bones with archaeological precision, 
soot-tipped wings stirring aging sediment phantoms, 
His body lifting earthbound cyclones, 
driving debris through psychomanteum stone

Dusted arachnid filament, 
long threaded within the cypress eye, 
where the darkness bites, 
the hell-tongue pull 
spinning ghost wires, 
unhinging a cabinet of curious perfumes: 
a heart of sutured leather hide, 
a mandible of corvid cadence, 
a vow fashioned from river polished bone

Oh, messenger of afterbreath, 
where the water witch conjures 
upon the air of moony weather

Her: a death meal praying 
a tinny voice of triangular overlapping chimes

His hot breath panting 
the reverse of the pane, 
the chilled glass etching His baritone howl, 
His curse pleading of
fingers, fabric, flesh, 
and as He harnesses Death’s patience, 
tapping out Her headstone epithet, 
syllables of disbelief and spatial frustration, 
the ground below Him ignites, 
Her candle extinguishing, 
Her countenance surrendering a smile, 
as the pricking of Her finger draws pomegranate seeds…

{We’re going home}

E.A. O'Connell

The Garden

There’s gold on the thistle
pulling from her breast a mother’s milk
soft silk with tortoise shell pins in the hem
that she furiously casts to the wind
violin throats absorbing
reimagining the cadence of release
bronze hollowed bones summoning
the humidity of cicada manifestation
a gilded phantom presence
a giant of folklore who’s exhalations cloud with wings and blood thirsty proboscises
the black knight’s perfume
a chasm that unapologetically consumes 
clock working blooms vine the sky
and trumpet Goddesses
where a chaos of leaded glass panes
reflecting dawn, midday, dusk, and midnight
distort storm clouds breaching the horizon
a child’s footsteps halt with the awakening to vibrations of earth tremors that shook a millennia ago

E.A. O'Connell

Strange Beings

Wind blows forcibly: the leaves scratch and pierce the crowning night / their underbellies a thousand infantile faces: in fear, in scream, in disbelief

Funeral in a matchbox: burying a body / leaded glass wings : and the burning gas / a star’s inferno mirrored in flightless wings

Sail: bare feet atop broken glass / green muddy hills / punctured flesh and blood: running, speed, grappling earth with each slip: the horizon and spreading arms out wide: rising, soaring, linen ghosts singing: a gossamer bed of cello strings and breathless lips that hover the cold kiss of stone lips

Funeral rites: risen in the moonlight: sacrificed / an offering to clock-working eyes: naked, burning, forging / the blood runs down my legs: a stag’s eight points shatter, gore my pelvis / death is morning glories vining, unwinding, wringing

Resurrection: maggots, earthworms dismantling ruins: pollinators seeding pheromones: soaking rain, arid sun: the birds that eat of their flesh: sing my essence: pollinators to petaled heads: bees brew honey that taste of me: trees fruit a nectar of me / trickling down your chin with every insatiable bite: your tongue painting for your hands, for your mind’s eye: what my soul looks like

E.A. O'Connell

Morning Senses

Morning sky: storm cloud splendor and eyes of blue / Summer’s in no hurry today: humidity’s low and hours are cool / Morning dew on garden beds: my fingers run along waist high sunflowers and cosmos green fringe / Bells softly ring, prayer flags whisper: flutter and settle / Sipping hot coffee / My hands smell of fresh cilantro

E.A. O'Connell

Evening Senses

The evening is sueded: dusky pink clouds: mountainous vessels slowly sailing behind gilded topped maples and sycamores. A rib cage hollow percussion from the lanterns in sway, bending the prisms hanging crystals throw. A father minstrel with ukulele in hand, strums through the alleys: a melodious stream of breezes and corvid laughter. A cardinal flies overhead, its belly never as red as when the sun sets upon it: I brush the hair from my eye with the back of my hand: ripe with the scent of afternoon rain on tomato vines…twine…sun bleached bamboo. It’s the very same feeling that comes over me: the peace of standing on the balcony looking out on Point Lobos: waves and silhouettes and a fire crackling in the living room: He standing behind me, watching me breathe. East or West: my soul knows beauty: be it grand, be it simple: I’m aware of how alive my senses are: tangled as they be: and that in itself: beauty

E.A. O'Connell

I. Soundtrack to Daily Life: Wicked Games

French doors span a wall, open and welcoming the landscape of evening {shadow catches my peripheral attention} / lazy summer breeze spreads slow honey glaze {I step over the threshold} / behind me garlic sautéing a low flame nebula on cast iron heirloom {second nature as my hand takes hold} / rifle loaded - finger on the trigger - focus clear - aim straight —dead on {and a smile blooms from my eyes to my lips}

-Wicked Games-

E.A. O'Connell