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Oisín Breen

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Featured Book
Matt Draper: From Riverboat Gambler to Frontier Banker
by John Rayburn

Gold discovery and gambling winnings lead to establishing a frontier bank, all part of the winning of the west...  
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Lullaby City
by Oisín Breen
Not rated by the Author.
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Recent poems by Oisín Breen
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Tangerine reality was an idle dream kept alive dressed by fantasy.

It scared itself to sleep with darkness that it once created.

Laughter rang the neck of reason, moved from graveyard to the pulpit

In confidence it cried “Jungle who am I but laughter?”

Raving sun, I fought with you eye to eye,

Now you fall,

Scare me awake with golden claws

That I mistook for how close I was to virtue.



City groans, is not a thing but fascination.

The sun falls!

Treason tells old dogs to bite the hands that feeds them.

City scrambles, weeps with fumes of bottleneck towers into horizon’s drooling green, weeps at how far the sun has fallen.



Electrocute the sky!

Envy city!
Fear the purple Nighttime cry of freedom’s swap for something just a little more

Savoury.

Nighttime is a maniac, anthemic, spays the sun.

The sun once shone out neon.

In darkness white rooms are comfort.

Neon is the egoterrorist.

Sanity isn’t safe.

Security’s worth more than reason.



I limp along on angry fists hunting the wordless,

One final trumpet call to end the city’s silent din.

I hunt neon the deserter under an electrocuted sky.

I watch as elephants dig me out from madness.

“Neon,” I yell to the empty street.

I hide! What’s more terrifying, a loss of liberty or a loss of comfort?



Nightmares laugh – win the race of fools –

Celebrate on deceiving neon.

Neon is the lunatic vision of an abstract saviour.

Reality falls apart – stitch the seams of madness!

Yesterday, the sun dropped to the ocean.

City won, desert, jungle, their day is done.



I knew scorn before I should, played fool before I knew I could – what is greatness but a ghost?

I see signs of what I fear the most,

Reality’s Madonna claws are leaking!



Now, neon is the death of city – join the victory dance.

The great illusion’s done, the bonfire’s lit.

Vanity is first to join our flaming circus

Take a hit, waging war leaves you running empty.



Now tear yourselves from sleep – cry Lullaby City.

The middle road fades illuminated by a limbless beast

A weblike zeppelin parading a starless sky

Pronouncing through loudspeaker imitation night

This whole trip is mockery.

Try you might, you can’t deceive deception.





II



Neon is the blurred vision of prayer,

Flowering lightbulb brightness through willow wisp shears of existence somehow bursting through toward centre, the nutjob sun of assembly line cars.

Neon is the seed of burning till you drop,

Exhausted, uninhibited inside lotus engraved, love is permanent, true madness – really awakening eyes torn from blue city, tugged near the real thing, the orange itself, an ecstasy chant surviving. Those eyes as a crucifix wear revival.

Neon weeps, praises fire,

Taps eternal, wails eccentricity,

Is the blue cloud,

Rhythmically chanting dead visionary’s names and those of laconic grinning wry Adonis would be saviour salesmen.

Is the salesman,

The actionary,

Selling tools to kill ego, one way trips through needlepoint.

Action is needlepoint,

Beached in time ripping day close to explosion so man can wonder love in green paradise.

And, action is the arm of neon

Of peace

- angry vanilla tears waiting to call the syntax of needlepoint.

Man is everydaze confused in the vast herd,

The human stampede is coming.

Man is running,

Is chased by shadow failure, a lioness.

Man will be tamed.

Needlepoint is fate dressed in rags,

The triumph of a new neon star – the ideal opiate version of the same old chorus.

The wild mutters of decayed blown time under mausoleum floor.

Needlepoint is future, fast, visionary, a saviour.

An actor in everyman’s clothes,

The pinprick of a new star

In frenzy to take once cold feet tired of working through sewage ruin utopia to the warmth,

The last warmth.

Saint is a sinner locked in tragedy,

Shouting demarcate! – Save the loud!

Shouting stay the everyman’s hand

Shouting save the magic men who use herbs to heal!

Shouting save the maniac!

This saint will be a hermit in the crowd

Dumb

Deaf

Whispering earth to the void,

Needing only a bellyful of food, to create our new neon star.

This is the last warmth of angels.




Copyright © 2004 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 Ronald Hull
Great play with words. The message escapes me.
Reviewed by La Belle Rouge (Reader)
This is so powerful, compelling write.
Reviewed by jude forese
most powerful and well written!
Reviewed by Tinka Boukes
Most excellent work as always Oisin!!

So nice to read you again!!

Love Tinka
Reviewed by Floria Kelderhouse (Reader)
"“Neon,” I yell to the empty street.

I hide! What’s more terrifying, a loss of liberty or a loss of comfort? '

Powerful Oisin....love reading you...
love the ending lines so much....floria

Reviewed by Kevin Mc Crum (Reader)
I have truly missed your work.
I see you are still worlds apart...
Thanks
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