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Oisín Breen

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Cacophony
by Oisín Breen

Friday, January 10, 2003

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Recent poems by Oisín Breen
•  Blessington
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           >> View all 80

Brazen is this - my silence.
Softly sat down. Strapped. Tied. Wrapped neatly round in metallic green - as worlds move by, my thoughts move parallel. Kings without names’re born in my mind – kings full of drowning – full of mindlessness – Monarchs overflowing!

No rain – no clouds – blue deep forever in this sky, where I’ve been silenced by my thoughts. “Do angels die?”
Hearing neither words nor one murmur. I’m quiet in silence, what’s heard is what said till the knowledge of new stillness confuses my mind.

Always I’m plucked – placed – carried and dropped. If I were to think, I’d imagine the wishes of those mothers and nurses long since forgotten, sincere and desiring. Lips moving – chattering! All’s still silent. This great silence is usual. Sound is surreal.

Were I to be a dreamer or leader or killer for wolves, could it be told of this child so young yet to die? Drifting in silence dreaming of sky. Were I to reach it I’d still wonder my query “Do angels die?”

Blocks and great circles, small squares aren’t triangles. There’s a soul with a ball, he’s wearing a frown. The ball is just grinning, I’m just wonderin’. “Can a ball steal a soul?”

Suddenly back I’m returning to things real to those others, yes squares aren’t triangles, perhaps a place near its friend, this other square hole. My epiphanies’re so real, pure, dark and empty. They aren’t describing Buddha or sinners but squares to their kin and circles to great empty circles.

Playfully tossing those thoughts with no ego or vanity, neither shame nor adornment till tangled - entrenched. Yet still I’m plucked – plucked – snatched – always. Stopping my solutions so I can hear whispers surreal.

Old fairies in robes, parent to side. Placed by old tin torn boxes and worn pictures of smiles. Silver triangles’re on a stick. Silver sticks in spasm!
Were all the pretty kittens to wail in remorse while I’ve pressed on mute, such is the sound of the silence I’ve heard.

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.
Much love.

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Reviewed by Joel 2/24/2003
Your writing is astounding and the pic on your bio page is delicious...
Reviewed by Tinka Boukes 2/12/2003
Excellent piece Oisin
Reviewed by richard poor 1/13/2003
i would like to hang with you....like your thought flow.
Reviewed by Heather Bricklin (Reader) 1/12/2003
I enjoy the style of your poetry and hope to learn from it, or at least return to where I was...

...the cacaphony inside one's own head can be deafening...
Reviewed by La Belle Rouge (Reader) 1/11/2003
I like your style too!! Awesome work.
Reviewed by coni lea harris (Reader) 1/11/2003
I kinda agree with debby, exceptally well written, deeply engrossing, I didn't even want to answer the phone, I had to come back and read it, it was the same feeling back, as if I had never left,,
Reviewed by Debby Rosenberg 1/10/2003
nothing really dies...it just changes form
Reviewed by na na (Reader) 1/10/2003
The title of this work is excellent to describe it. The words and ideas pull me in different directions and never let me settle in one spot. Not a criticism. My mind rebels at any complexity and it is now doing it. Excellent piece. Bill Murray
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