by Oisín Breen
Thursday, April 15, 2004
Not rated by the Author.
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Listening to the Clash. Wrote a poem
My endless continuum friendship
With dawns, rabbits, the calm blue bliss, sunsets,
Sings unified chords.
I am not I
Only unreal space between two strings.
Dawn, a lingering vibration,
Dawn is watched,
It’s feet stretched through endless poppy fields resting on sand.
Eyes waxwork playdough cartoons.
As it passes laughing above the clouds I get up from the sand.
I am going to pluck flowers in a park surrounded on all four sides by busy streets.
Outside there are preachers on each corner.
Some of them hang like willow trees from great white signs.
Some are only images.
Some are only men.
Behind every preacher a fetishist raps off worry and concern.
His eyes like those of a huge patriarch in long white robes,
With curled and angry teeth,
Screaming through silence,
A falsetto sneer,
And eternal autumn.
His mouth drips shit like a river flowing through a dam.
In my arms as I left,
A basket of flowers,
In the edges of mind I saw a Techno Pagan octopus messiah ranting.
It struck me only two hours after dawn how much the whisper today becomes a scream.
Last night in my dream I became the blank wave washing down curling sand in a watery cradle.
The night was long.
I looked out the window and on the streets were marching men.
They were in uniform and they were passed their sell by dates.
In front of each house in the row of suburban houses that I see from my window was a podium.
On each podium screaming with blood vessels popping, factory-made faces asked for the vote back.
As I moved away from the window,
All this reform shit is so blasé.
The edge of my mind drew me back.
I saw a man smiling, sitting on the lawn.
He held a flower and, smiling, bent into the wind.
He was like the dawn.
Through the falsetto sneer of comedic screeching, I heard his voice.
He whispered and it struck me how much the whisper today becomes a scream.
“A peaceful hand raised is rebellious as a coup.” He whispered.
I went outside to him and we sat silent, beside a rabbit and a squirrel, drinking tea.
Dawn came again and wrapped us up in a rosy red blanket.
He had no name and we always whispered.
The coup is already won the day your eyes open.
A peaceful hand raised is my rebellion.
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
|Your imagination amazes me. Your word, passed their expiration dates should be past. And, if it ain't Mynah Bird, it must be Yourneh Bird.|
|Reviewed by Tinka Boukes
|Always nice to read you...something unigue everytime!!
|Reviewed by Valerie Roeske
Always love reading your artwork, words to grasp the mind, a wonderful excellent form, loved it !!!!! Always Val
|Reviewed by ya mama (Reader)
|you did well on this. great poem.|