What of this emotion, born unto its own? Its implement being physical...tangible. Yet, the fingers of rage only asks to be believed. While, rage, in and of itself, believes in nothing. Living only to be heavy, wet and cold. It is the salt of a tear, as it stings a mother's eye. Many have stood … Continue reading All the Rage
What a visceral demon! He steals across a window's view. To rob those listening...blind. Leaving an illness. Frank with expression but few words left to define. I have not seen this renaissance monster. In quite sometime. Still he always keeps my lover in mind. For the quieted voices, tucked in a far off place. For … Continue reading Visceral Demons
Clifford Bernel by Mark O'Brien Lonnie didn’t want to eat with Clifford. I tried to keep my eyes away from his mouth, Which opened uncontrollably, His thick saliva oozing over him. And he couldn’t talk. So I ate my lunch with Lonnie, heard him talk About the dive which broke his neck, about His … Continue reading Clifford Bernel by Mark O’Brien
A scent of warmth fills the air. Yet, being mid January, this toying game... appears cruel and unfair. Unsullied water, forgotten berry and mulch... Apprehend such a brief snippet of time. And, the long-awaited spring never remains...for long, on the mind.
If a freedom rang through the fog. What a delight it would be... for my stuttered bones. My body, seemingly, a fractured lawn ornament. In search of a new home. I turn, and face my hobble toward this mystic, mythic road. appendages nothing more than a mere icicle for the cold. Infantile, I still believe … Continue reading For My Stuttered Bones