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Oisín Breen

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by Oisín Breen

Saturday, June 21, 2003

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           >> View all 80

Tremble! – Tremble before the maturation of the arch fool.
Who searches holding hands starry eyed under beaten up suns.
Who searches for mirror girl enchantresses.
Who hears cawing jackdaw whimpers.
Who worships Revelry The Beast.
Is The Great Revelry, The Great Beast.

Eugene Clay, he got up from himself to wonder the edge of the world.
To wonder humanity.
Awe-struck, he saw it created hollow from stars.

On marble floors he trailed delirium’s lost sense.
He never spoke again.
The wind said it all.

He cast himself as prophet gazing through ceilings to reds, whites – doorway blues.
He chanced upon notions of immortals.
What of immortality, when it’s heyday’s come and gone?

His day’s closer.
He floats eyes to the vapid sky – mumbles Proust and Sartre to angels.
With one hour’s sleep in endless daze till summer’s end, he longs for rain’s downward draw.

Tremble! – Tremble before the maturation of the arch fool.
Who searches holding hands glassy eyed under dawn sun.
Who worships Revelry The Beast.
Is The Great Revelry, The Great Beast.

Heal up his sanity’s rift, else he disappears.
For old revolutions twist, bend heads to new understanding’s white hall Mecca.
Then new days come – earth goes blue – revolution’s face away – disappear.

He’s a prophet gazing through ceilings hearing wisdom’s fool voice.
He’s the plastic pastiche neon backroom manic fantasy.
Tremble before the maturation of him, the arch fool.

Eugene Clay, christlike, is haunted by dreams.
He waits – waits with a hole in his head for his prophecy’s truth.
The truth – that we’re all mice and lions.
That we’re all conditioned fantasy.

Still he’s waiting, trembling before a statue’s eyes.
The statue’s the earth, his father, his lover, mother, friend and enemy.
Still he waits, kneels before a statue’s grinning face.

Copyright © 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 Adam Walsvik (Reader) 9/19/2003
My qestion to myself would be: What is it a statue of?(to?)

Reviewed by Regina Pounds 6/27/2003
And when he matures, he will rise to his feet, recognize the statue's limited value and walk away.

Superb insights, Oisin.

Reviewed by Mariah Rowse 6/22/2003
One cannot help but think that perhaps Mr. Clay is being judged as he stands before this statue of sorts. To say this poem was excellent would cheapen its value. It is so much more than that.
Reviewed by jude forese 6/21/2003
excellent poem!

"That we’re all conditioned fantasy"
deep observation... excellent imagery...
Reviewed by Katy Walsvik 6/21/2003
Em, Oisin.. You would need to crack my skull and peer in to know my brain's response here.. you'd have to look into my eyes and watch the twitching around my mouth to grasp what I can find no words for... this is not about subject matter..or form or meter.. it's about full-out sensory impact! Jaysus! Sometimes you can be damned mesmerizing! katy.
Reviewed by Erin Kelly-Moen 6/21/2003
Cooly done, Oisin! Perhaps we are all prophets, in our own way... Good to see you! :)
Reviewed by E T Waldron 6/21/2003
Hi Oisin, powerful gripping apocalyptic write.
Reviewed by Lady Peg (Reader) 6/21/2003
This is an awesome piece.
Missed you here.
Reviewed by Nicole Davis Vergara (Reader) 6/21/2003
Ooooo I agree a most powerful write indeed!
Reviewed by Tinka Boukes 6/21/2003
Very powerful write Oisin........hi buddy!!
Howziiiiiittt!! Cooooool on this side of the world!!!

Take care Okay'sssss!!

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