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

...excerpts of thoughts in story {II}...

“…the Sun.”
“No. I won’t.  I’ve been noctrunal far too long.”
“Shhhh. Close your eyes. Breathe from your center.  Give into your true nature.  Loosen the earthly gravitational pull…forward the soul—it remembers—reconnect with your primal mind.”
{Hands tilt my head back, fingers river flow along my neck, base of skull, forehead—tapping rhythms every few paces—}        
                                                                            {minutes slow—}
“Now, the Sun. How does He speak?”                                                                                                             {My breath catches—my brain silences—and I relinquish control}

... … …Chants…Arias… ...No, a dirge...a wild rite...a language solemn, a depth of prism iridesce and spilt apothecary bottle silence
Cedar split…fractured burns…a warm terracotta belly…and stacked driftwood…
Sin. Sin rich as September coughing seas, and soft as milk thick lightning streaming through an underwater haze…
He tasted me —my flesh as ripe as the snap of rapture—
He let himself lost in my body—my cemetery, a garden of enigmas—he tore from me, a bitter medicinal root, potent—fatal
He percussions me {vertebrae / ribs} — He strings me {hips / clavicle} — He sacreds me {sternum / womb}—He abandons me—cold steel, dissected and raw
He still rises on my taste buds —layer upon layer— tobacco soil, aged oak, wax of prayer candles—He prays to himself
His birthright tears me from inside out—his progenitor mends me and quietly recedes
He enwraps me—a chaos of breeze— the vibration in ricochet {his lips}—a burial shroud... ... ...

{My eyes open—a false reality? a foreshadow of the eye?—gauzy, black wings suspended before the craggy tomb, absorbing light—sunlight emblazons the spire, consuming shadow} 
“Can we?...Do we?... ...Live? Die?... ...We’re... ...a Möbius strip”... ...
“Accept the ride.”

{Return II Origins}

E.A. O'Connell

...Meta...

That blue hour…running water lit in ripened blood…only one tree shivers a feverish eulogy to Summer…morning memories of jays bird boxing…the tin of their screams, serrated & rusted…their flight patterns a star tetrahedron…through which I glimpse the breadth of eagle wings…you omen my divine wheeling, ascent in growth & vision… …from the earth, a mother snake sought the sun…her hatchling lifeless on moon cast stone…earthbound sparrow chatter hushed…cycloned leaves in the kicked up breeze, an energy silenced in a sun-blind collision…cicada camouflage pressed in asphalt flat…wings reduced to dusty, shattered factory windows…screams of youth bullet the holes… …Death keeps me grounded…frees me from all cages & irons…in my memory & at my bedside, we smile at each’s actuality…I thank Him repeatedly…because of our proximity, I expand on life… …Back in that blue hour…water raining over my body, lit in copper-rich blood… …I’m bleeding anew… …ever viable & always in thrive… …I’m meta… …breath & fight…

E.A. O'Connell

...

Lemon and ash skies…porcelain purging…the green of my heart chakra…the hot flashes and nausea…that coil me exoskeleton…a golden mean to an end… …bone dry veins & stick after stick…the gurney breeze & downhill slide…warmth & the dimming of lights…my gratitude speaks as the milk of sleep befalls… …the core of my being…the faces come to mind…smiling…as life caesuras… …where my head goes…unknown…consciousness snaps with thought in full moon tide…the birth of a new star from the void…a laugh… …a hand extended…my hand…to whom…I know not… …laughing…I come…I go…laughing… …one day He’ll come for me…for good…and we’ll make light a heavy life…chimera our humor… …& toll a great many bells…

E.A. O'Connell

The Sins of the Sin Eater

… …to know…who will eat the sins of the sin eater?…a feast for the senses & a pariah menagerie…silence befitting a communion & raucous praise of an orgasm… …to want…cremation…smoke of bones mingling with a gray morn…dawn wedded to the horizon…a gold band & raw minerals…fire to lick at sin stained skin…survival is ugly…a lifetime of evils…lovely & necessary… …want to…burn the house down…to ashes, silken dust…encased in a Celtic box, hand carved…blessings and curses etched into the wood…no ill of deeds, the hands upon her flesh & faculty in the afterlife…a flight & hike…Point Lobos, silver sea mist and fog…scattered…a decimated body in dance, ancient tongue in lilt… …to bear…seasonal symbiosis: winter incubation & spring rattle: germination…earth borne wildling…bidden by blood running a chin & seeds ground by teeth…ravenous, she seeks, she eats…of sins & fears, named & displaced, by mortals on ferals…her fury & resolve, resurrecting chaos & colors…only the sinful can see…only the Gods amongst men know…the cycle never falters…forms alter, transfigure…the soul, a pyrophyte, thrives in strength & reason… chaos …I remember, upon each & every pyre… …want…need…the sins upon which I feed…

E.A. O'Connell

...to the lotus...

…I went to the lotus…to breathe, to realign & recover the silence…my path was lined with prairie dropseed…my fingers mingling with the height…my hand blooming, a coriander perfume… …hummingbirds navigated stalks, darting in and out, a hide and seek game…one slowing, hovering…eye to eye, we considered the other… …and to the azure sky my focus…prehistoric angles & serene lengths, so was built the heron…softly landing atop the evergreen, amongst the tangled knit of summer growth… …tree swallows engaged an aerial dance…a belted kingfisher meditated atop the slate roof of a spring house… …I, nature’s familiar of ancient lot… …I feel people, hear them vibrate…a cartographer of behavior…I read & decode…exhausting & destructive to my rhythm…the wild keeps me centered & grounded… …I go to the lotus for confirmation & absolution…where my sins aren’t catalogued and condemned…rather assimilated as an integral part of my whole…where my evils are instinct & survival…beautiful and holy…bloodlet & moon-tide… …a harbinger…a rise, a stitch… …water moccasin & copperhead…primal & immortal…sensual & shadow…a force of nature…I am who the rabbit foretold… …I go to the lotus to remember…exiles and resurrections…to honor my deaths & circumnavigate existence… …I go to the lotus to exalt my demons & exit the dead…..

E.A. O'Connell