Daisies Dead and Gone
by Oisín Breen
Monday, December 23, 2002
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Collages of images teeter before this mountain edge. Were sleep to overcome lovers of lies - should they find themselves lost amidst the poppy fields, when too heavy to stand unable to lie unless prepared to die to snakes and dreamers, the dreamers, they’re crawling, eyes to ground. Shorn of pride and dignity by the matadors. They’ll be twisting, turning, tortured as the bull.
I am a matador of poetic man. Should I trip upon the roots and fall to sleep amidst the snakes and dreamers? I would chance my life. These charges of poetics - to stab – to rage – make wild and scream. Such tasks too trivial yet adored! To find the wolf within the sheep and madden it till screaming - then to watch oneself a hundred times through mirrors and reflections, goading and teasing sheepish wolves. To see myself devoured by life. To plead upon those bleeding altars to live as if you’re dead!
There’s terrible aristocrats each one dining and wining whilst the small and the pretty little children got nothing to own but the daisy tied round their neck and the lovely curl upon their lips. They’re writhing in the streets.
Death to the starlight and night!
Death from the ecstatic reigns in the sky, the conjurors of youths demise!
To sit, turning, round and round. These clocks they’re ticking, the motors running. Get home before 6 O’clock for meal. O to have some steak tonight - these grandiose visions of your soul. To eat upon another and dine, never care to think. You’re useless. As dead cattle. Hive. Mind your step say parents to their daughters.
What’s the risk of falling, should she fall and slip upon her head and lie and soon be doomed upon a bed. All around a fury of activity! Children’re wailing, parents crying, dreamers dying - poetics on the crucifix. She’s the lucky one. Dead and gone, all buried and forgotten as the world forgets to think. When dogs are dogs and never change they’re not cats, I’m not surprised. When culture cultures and never changes just evolves my eyes well up with tears.
One-day maybe I shall slip upon misfortune, upon a dagger, shorn and torn, ripping through me then surprise will hit me in this world. Simple wishes for simple minds and simpler still for further thoughts. I wish upon my life to see the world dare dream. Watch folk rise and go to work not in thoughtless but for want to work. To act for art not for talent! To love for love and not because why not. O is reincarnation?
How many of us will return as bulls to the matadors in Spain and sunny Mexico? I am a matador of poetics. You the bull, tortured till you kill me as you watch my eyes wince out. Steal the youth and vibrancy I share with some and none at all.
Oh to wake in the morning with a view of heaven and the night, a view of the darkness and of fallen angels. The people all around me they’re dreaming! Damning! Cursing! Selling souls at a cent an hour for a chance of misfortune, so they themselves and others like can echo out the sad old songs, they are dead and gone. To dream she’s down at the asylum hanging round and dripping blood. Why she useless? So gone and so torn she ain’t got nothing left to do but die! Die, die and where am I in this thing what part have I o to play again in role of damned and those demons hunted by the wolves and sheep all alike. She’s at loss to the world and at loss to me at loss to love. She gone and buried in my mind. Now upon the trellis of the doomy gloom set before me by my choice, lie I with kindred soul so beautiful and dreamy.
She’s my queen upon an altar so I’m the emperor. Sitting to my throne I’ll mingle with the fascists and their pigs and drip upon the falling pipes as rain from sky and drip down streets.
All around the eyes can tell a story. Some on smack and others speed. Heroin is your tease you say when mine is none at all. You got an answer for my question please before you tell me just ask me when this world should speak. I don’t have a question. Come on come on down the road for me and dine in lavish halls and should I come upon some fortune and find myself drinking up with majors, generals and Lebanese drifters, lovers for death, will I smile.
This day the dragons feast.
Left is one dragon in his silver gown! It squanders! Hordes! Fifteen faces lined in row. Fifteen faces, fifteen eyes and fifteen green hands from greed. Choices gone! They created dragons.
All around life and death belongs to death and life. Nothing else but life and death! O perchance I end upon the wistful looks of an innocent girl flowery eyed and more. She is mine and I as if a whore to her each day. Damned contradiction is the ale between the world and sole constant is her smile. The little chances to sail upon a boat and river. To plan ahead is hers and to life now and questions. I curse and damn, I don’t have a reason yet so pleasing could it be. Would it be so? Would I have reason, to have mundane in life! Perhaps the saving grace for all my life so beautiful so too damned by bliss. To ignorance I sail with good mind intent upon the ignorance and bliss of wisdom not intelligence. I am me and you are you but let me slip upon you and fall between your eyes and smile and never leave.
Leaves. Autumn! Bells. Falling! Dead! Gone and gone, never back yet all before and all behind, wrapped round me in velvet. Velvet! So pretty! So plush!
Adore me I am Adonis.
Adore me I am dead.
Adore me, dead men never cry.
Adore me I am dead.
Adore each day; adore each breath, adoration.
The poet laureate to adoration!
Adore me I am Adonis.
Adore me I am dead.
Copyright © 2002, 2003 Oisín Breen.
No reprints or distribution of any kind sort in any form in this or any other known universe or dimension or medium without my express permission.
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|Reviewed by Tinka Boukes
|this is real nice....and the passion in your words its super..
|Reviewed by Heather Bricklin (Reader)
|I am inspired!|
|Reviewed by *********** ********** (Reader)
|You have such a passion in your words. I feel I have lived this...Just fantastic...Ty, Dani|
|Reviewed by Debby Rosenberg