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fatefatalism stalks me.
its chalky finger-bones
scrabble at my windows,
greedy to pry panes
and rend gaps—
mouth agape
to vent its algid breath.

conjured,
like a voodoo zombie
of the bayou,
by pious disciples
to the temple of matter.

they strain to evade
the burden of their choices,
worrying at the knots of destiny
and scattering dust
to fill in our footprints.

in a sly reversal of legerdemain,
they entice hands from rudders,
with their relentless mantra:
"free will is illusion!"

but illusion is smoke,
and stars still burn in my chest.
not nebulae, but hard points and brilliant.
I pass through them,
burning the fog
i said, "it's alright, i stillTo know completely in yourself
that you have love inside of
you like a clamorous reservoir-

and to know the pressure of
inner space reluctant to
explode like light from
1941-

to know the only neck
your fingers will ever
articulate with is
that of a
bottle;

I will reside inside of your
boyishness like an ever
darkening sea ready to
coagulate like the
blood that stirs
within my guilt.
snowbonesholding my hands over the kettle
the skin on my fingertips peels back,
like dated wallpaper,
like flowers blooming.

they're burning from the inside out,
nails turning to varnish, turning to steam,
bones click-clacking their way out;
spreading like wildfire.

the whistling stops, and
blink
and my fingers are just fingers,
ink stained, bitten nails.

sunlight streams across the kitchen,
my fingers warm and
slightly damp, i trace patterns on
steamed-up windows.
27               [I]

    arthur boyd:

she cried 'transubstantiation' -

why don't you eat dirt and
    feel closer to Earth !(?)

i slipped ,jointlessly, seemless
quicksilver ,going downdown
until I wrapped my serptentine form
around the core
                     , a cold static stone

                       
Ocean's SongForgive my weakness, woman,
and my albatross-hands that roam
from island to island, in search of rest.

Forgive me also
for my fish-school eyes, they dart from side to side
in search of something that glitters - prey
or the great white Kraken, or both:
"I have wrecked too many ships, and seen
them scream, I have held them like a lover;
come, my children," it tempts, and lies
softly at the bottom of the sea, singing.

Forgive my oceanic absence,
and the lapping and the lapses of my tongue;
it writhes in my mouth like the Kraken -
a treacherous, twisted creature
is love, and I do, make no mistake.
291010early autumn is spreading her legs for winter and
my breath reaches the stale air

like celtic knots, writhing in shapes of
fetus dreams
there are subtle clouds

shrouding the sky
and hushed rosemary wind

time spent on wondering which words exist,
peach blossom in a sky of tapering velvet

we both look above
in search of a god, or stars which belong on your teeth

she was is could be a sunset and
he is the sunrise

blissful history, sheltered and surreal
a spine which kisses shower

pupils like a eclipsed moon
arrowed by cupid,
bleeding

misanthropic and so sudden,
can you talk without it breaking glass?

soothed and sullen cheek
Orangesmorning lifts to the smell
of oranges

he enters her eyes, a
stranger waving away
              her dreams, which are thick and rough-skinned as the
              carpet beneath her soles

                                          she is getting up,
                                          clinging to the up
                                          because down

is a quiet fruit that she'd
rather not peel
alone
CompositionComposition

There is almost nothing of life left
in me. I spasm
like a broken wasp, like a headless
samurai.

As openings go, I could do worse.

You respond, tell me
about someone we knew from high school,
how you write him
letters in longhand, the way you once
wrote to me. You converse
about your shared love
of music.

And I know. I conceive

of how I could still play your piano
forte,
how I could make your guts
vibrate.

I could find the key.

I have spent so long
practicing.

Theory is not enough. I tune
my instrument
and bang out a few notes.
Me and My Shadowi.

My shadow slips to silence among the aquatic acacias. Even here, leaves abound, draped over the fuzz-curves of his figure as he soaks up the moonlight. Papa's soft voice turns my gaze to the moon. Remember, Carlos, our shadows are but imprints of the moon. Remember the Eclipse. I shiver and hold onto an acacia branch. I'm careful not to let my shadow near the shoreline where sea meets sand. That's why acacias are aquatic; they drowned their fate with the sea, Papa says. We cannot, we must not let it be our shadow's fate. We are nothing without our shadows. And yet the tide sweeps towards my toes as the moon charioteers across the silver n
illuminate my heartSeptember falls outside his window and the two-story house feels June. Time tilts here, the days canted to the left like the apple tree their grandchildren planted sometime last winter. It hasn't grown much since then, a few leaves on dry branches but no blooming flowers when spring arrived.

Today his fifty years seem like thirty. Sitting up in bed is easier. He doesn't feel as weak as before. The Pacific breeze touches his hair, chills his pale face and he thinks, Maybe Anna and I could drive down to the beachfront today.

He rolls to his side. She's burrowed under the covers, a blue blanketed lump, white hair poking out over dark blue pill
5404 broadway boulevardsomething still lives in
aisles of extracted engines hanging full pelt in
hulking remains in
the suburban neighborhoods of filed radiators
more or less identical and
lined up like boxes on hillsides they've been
ripped clean from mangled metal bellies like
fetuses in
the grey concrete sounds of junkyard men
with hands so dirty they never scrub clean in
oil puddles and roaming dogs in
rain on rooftops that double as ceilings.

a half mile out under a sky like
frostbite and cashmere a sunset like
jaundice or rust there are
rows of pulled pistons silent, standing
sentinel, stainless steel heat sterilized
with the welding
driveall pigtails and freckles,
bubblegum and denim jumpers,
you’re too young to know what
the letter D, U and I stand for,
but you’re already
driving me up a
Disney-princess pink
wall
The woman with the garish...The slugs chewed jagged crowns
out of brand new ecru tulips,
and the rain filled them up
like teacups
until they drooped,
made lazy by the weather.

But Spring blew smoke
like the woman on the park bench
smoking a Pall Mall
and whispering into a black cell phone,
her bright red boots toe-deep in water.

Her umbrella, spine flicking drops
into the flower beds,
irrigating daffodils
yet to bloom,
made the park look gothic
and lonesome.

But when she left,
her breath steam
against the air,
boot heels clicking
against the stone –
The flowers peered up,
Blinking against the rain.
safe-house songyou tie your words together
        like loose thread, leaving
  nothing left to trip over: no trail to follow.

         your voice is shallow, heartbeat
    steady as the cadence of the second-hand.
           Away from the window,
                admission flows forth like mercury.

        yes, i held my breath. yes.
                i can still smell the earth;
            can still imagine the

vignetted
        insouciance of spring
            bursting into sepia life
       like the birth of toads.
[some things are not so soon forgotten.]

       i want you to know, sunflower
            intimate with the ba
Jones Gap, JulyIt will have been estimation mostly: my return to you
this way, just this: like the decline of a body,

all dolled up—smiling, anyway, of course smiling—
and full of something: you can tell; when I am addressing you,

I can tell: you feel a yellowness in me, a kind of hope: an envy.
I watch you when you are eating, when you are watching me

prove myself in eating: how you manage your silver; where, when
I have finished, I fold my napkin. I suspect

something will be put to death here, soon, and then dinner,
plated and served—that these will be the years of two mutes

between us, our organization of hands in the air silentl
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Older

:iconanarchypress:

Time is a lonely bastard child. I know
how it feels.

I explore the spaces inside, moist hollows
where the angels once worked
their mischief. Strange
what you can grow accustomed to. I probe
the old scar tissue: smooth, numb
in places. I imagine I can feel
their shades, tactile afterimages: a zombie
reflex, a longing
for a longing. It pulls
at the center of my chest.

I miss the certainty of need.

I examine new possibilities, take
steps, show interest, craft a proposition,
cut a book deal. I have always been honest,
good
for others, even at my worst. I read. I write.
I observe, offer advice. Business is easy
to come by.

I have my way with words.

I nurture the spark, zap
it with alternating current, breathe life
into the old girl. She gags,
stutters for breath, settles into a ragged
purr. Obsolete and in need
of a tune up, but serviceable. Not so nearly
broken.
:iconanarchypress:
Copyright 2009 Michael O'Connell
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Daily Deviation

Given 2011-03-16
There is honest clarity in the images of Older by ~anarchypress, and a strong dose of self-reflection. ( Featured by `nycterent )
love 4 4 joy 0 0 wow 0 0 mad 0 0 sad 0 0 fear 0 0 neutral 0 0
:iconartistic-foolishness:
~artistic-foolishness Oct 22, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
I can relate so completely to this.
And I'm not exactly what you'd call "old".
Reply
:icondailylitdeviations:
=DailyLitDeviations Oct 20, 2011
Your wonderful literary work has been chosen to be featured by DLD (Daily Literature Deviations) in a news article that can be found here [link] Be sure to check out the other artists featured and show your support by :+fav:ing the News Article.

Keep writing and keep creating.
Reply
:iconthelunalily:
~TheLunaLily Apr 20, 2011   Writer
This is great.
Reply
:iconanarchypress:
~anarchypress Apr 29, 2011
Thank you.

~Michael
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:iconthelunalily:
~TheLunaLily Apr 29, 2011   Writer
You're welcome.
Reply
:icontmpst24myst:
`tmpst24myst Mar 16, 2011  Student Writer
I don't know why you wrote this. But I know how I read it and how I took personal meaning from it. (:
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:iconanarchypress:
~anarchypress Mar 19, 2011
I'm glad. Thank you.

~M
Reply
:iconinthenextlife:
~InTheNextLife Mar 16, 2011
Very Lovely.
Reply
:iconanarchypress:
~anarchypress Mar 19, 2011
Thank you.

~M
Reply
:iconcenterofmyuniverse:
Mood: Love ~centerofmyuniverse Mar 16, 2011
Darty and random and open..., but lusty and content and very digestible.
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