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Napping Outside Parliament by anarchypress Napping Outside Parliament :iconanarchypress:anarchypress 7 4 Prayers Snapshot by anarchypress Prayers Snapshot :iconanarchypress:anarchypress 1 0
Literature
Prayers
The call singsongs over the loudspeakers,
blanketing Old Delhi. We shuffle
towards it through the afternoon haze.
A weathered metal detector chimes
as we pass. No one seems to notice.
As we crest the red stone steps, they tell us,
"Only Muslims," and point to a sign in English
listing prayer times for the Jama Masjid.
We crowd into the shade with the women
and the unfaithful. The mosque grows quiet.
I take a seat and watch a man root around
inside another's ear with a metal instrument.
Down below, a handful of kids play
with an abused cricket bat and a hollow
plastic ball. The leader smacks one
over a tall fence and has to monkey-climb
the gate to fetch it while the rest look on.
A little girl, three or four, hair braided
into a short black tail, collects coins
in the hammock of her grimy white apron.
She sits alone on the top step under the sun.
No one approaches her. Her body has been
kept whole, perfect. She may grow up
to be beautiful. I take a snapshot
as she examines the c
:iconanarchypress:anarchypress
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Puss in Boots Comic - 19 by anarchypress Puss in Boots Comic - 19 :iconanarchypress:anarchypress 87 103 Puss in Boots Comic - 18 by anarchypress Puss in Boots Comic - 18 :iconanarchypress:anarchypress 12 14 Puss in Boots Comic - 17 by anarchypress Puss in Boots Comic - 17 :iconanarchypress:anarchypress 15 12 Puss in Boots Comic - 16 by anarchypress Puss in Boots Comic - 16 :iconanarchypress:anarchypress 19 19 Puss in Boots Comic - 15 by anarchypress Puss in Boots Comic - 15 :iconanarchypress:anarchypress 16 5 Puss in Boots Comic - 14 by anarchypress Puss in Boots Comic - 14 :iconanarchypress:anarchypress 11 4 Necromancer 2 - Ashcan Cover by anarchypress Necromancer 2 - Ashcan Cover :iconanarchypress:anarchypress 27 21
Literature
Older
Time is a lonely bastard child. I know
how it feels.
I explore the spaces inside, moist hollows
where the angels once worked
their mischief. Strange
what you can grow accustomed to. I probe
the old scar tissue: smooth, numb
in places. I imagine I can feel
their shades, tactile afterimages: a zombie
reflex, a longing
for a longing. It pulls
at the center of my chest.
I miss the certainty of need.
I examine new possibilities, take
steps, show interest, craft a proposition,
cut a book deal. I have always been honest,
good
for others, even at my worst. I read. I write.
I observe, offer advice. Business is easy
to come by.
I have my way with words.
I nurture the spark, zap
it with alternating current, breathe life
into the old girl. She gags,
stutters for breath, settles into a ragged
purr. Obsolete and in need
of a tune-up, but serviceable. Not so nearly
broken.
:iconanarchypress:anarchypress
:iconanarchypress:anarchypress 237 83
Literature
One Afternoon
One Afternoon
A bunch of us boys
on the Gonzaga
in Florence program
cruised
into Antonio’s Café.
Toni sold espresso,
panini, and snacks. The
place had an
upstairs
and shelves and
shelves of liqueurs. His
sandwiches were
cheap
and good.
Ciao, Toni!
Then one of us saw
it. We
sensed
the change. All turned
as a gorgeous young
woman
rolled by
behind the wheel
of a cherry
Italian sportscar.
The sunshine made it
perfect.
And then Toni:
Che macchina!
We all laughed like
hell.
It amazes me that the
guy who
owned that thing
ever
let it out of his sight.
:iconanarchypress:anarchypress
:iconanarchypress:anarchypress 5 13
Puss in Boots Comic - 13 by anarchypress Puss in Boots Comic - 13 :iconanarchypress:anarchypress 14 11 Puss in Boots Comic - 12 by anarchypress Puss in Boots Comic - 12 :iconanarchypress:anarchypress 12 3 Puss in Boots Comic - 11 by anarchypress Puss in Boots Comic - 11 :iconanarchypress:anarchypress 12 5 Puss in Boots Comic - 10 by anarchypress Puss in Boots Comic - 10 :iconanarchypress:anarchypress 12 1

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Sidhe-ID Version: Silence by far-eviler Sidhe-ID Version: Silence :iconfar-eviler:far-eviler 13 7
Literature
out of Garden
what sea
how it is welling your eyes a wet mess
what tide
where urchins of the ocean will spill to howl their elegy
where mermaids will turn widows
once brine has swallowed whole their sailor babes
stewarding the land instead
is why i never set sail with you
but to lay in gardens, oh…
a bed sheet rotten by the ultraviolet
and our laps full of stars
what black soil will pervert your knees there
where moonlight will mirror out from your teeth
to run fanatic toward cosmic space
after bathing in the space among us
where walking air pushes every dust
one of sun-dried butterflies
one of beaten rug with broom
one of honey bee’s minus harvest
one from sands of human crust
when traced is an orb monster, Jupiter
around your left breast, so that nipple…
a blood storm just under the skin
and asking where you sowed the marigolds
is only to hear you choke the words time and water
in the same sentence
to hear you say there will be no rain for a week
while an ocean is
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Literature
in Lieu of a Lie
______________________________
Our sky squats
hostile and sad;
what a wail of rain
and wind when
a hardwood throws
several hickory nuts
down where
the runt squirrel
will be shoved
from the nest
to plummet
and be reared
by the shaking
hands of man
but
man will soon
plummet himself,
surely as his wife
does scream,
surely as she
loves cold men
but not so much
does she love
the cold.
______________________________
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a fitting Death
______________________________
Having observed the pressures existent
in every advance of ground and grime, my thoughts
have run persistent:       the gathering petals do spoil
                                    to humus and born
                                    is black-bellied fetus mud:
                                    goes itself to slabbing mass
          
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that Tragic branch
______________________________
a squall to
provoke defeat --
go the gales to sever
trees, go the trees to shed
ruin and scatter what remains
once the wind sucks in
this autumn --
as go I hoping dumbly
to be just as ruined,
scattered, remaining
only of what autumn
leaves to die --
goes a cankered gust,
to irritate the high perch,
to rile the storm,
to rouse the wren
that brings hint
of her;
the wren
to be blown
to worms
or flap from
that tragic branch --
so
I never expect anyone
to stay.
______________________________
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Literature
go down, in history,
/
he found me
,a penny,
and palmed off my dirt.
and made me read poetry
under the influence
in a parked Cadillac.
that first night
when he carried me upstairs
I counted ceiling beams
and named them after
elementary school teachers
who probably died
of emphysema the year I
learned to drive.
/
I am using him
to get well known
and he has grown-up food
in his fridge, so I
can stop going hungry.
I missed four meals last week
and I can see weight loss
in my shower drain,
in my round brush.
/
I hate that he has
a tie like my father's
and keeps tissues in his coat pockets
and offers me antacids before I
undo my mouth.
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Mature content
High Noon and the Body :iconmanchaliaina:manchaliaina 195 42
Literature
The Dolomite Man
        1.
You are openhanded. Of course you are openhanded.
Yours is a more civilized hand than God’s,
a softer hand, a slower hand.
And your mouth discloses the first great secret of the world.
I cannot hear it. It
is a secret for your mistresses and your four wives,
and for your mistresses and your four wives only.
The child will learn it on his own. You may edify him
this way, you may make a lesson out of it—
though I will learn close to nothing.
Perhaps how to make my expressions less vacuous,
my hands softer and more civilized,
my tongue-pallet the purer.
Hand me that Madeira and I will tell you
RUBBER TIRES FOR TANNIN! How perfectly
the aftertaste traipses its tails and trains along behind it,
thick, yes, but gone in the creases.—
You smile.
God watches from the library room, envious
and with locusts.
        2.
        You sat once,
forgetting m
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:iconcatching:catching 79 27
Literature
A blind man misses the sun
Tracing small town streets
she inches along in the shadows
filling thoughts between left turns
and Long Island Iced Teas
the barkeep serves me my regular
and I can't keep these hands
from paper confessions
there are as many miles between us
as days until I see you again
only patience or a Visa ATM could shorten either
but late night phone calls beneath starlight
don't require oil changes
and the days, well,
the days I use to cover pages in chicken scratch
to pave the way back to my front door
I miss you like a blind man misses the sun
can feel it on his skin
but can't reach out and see its believers
glowing their convictions for us to see
the drink is settling in
for a conversation with my liver
and these cigarettes are burning holes in my lungs
opening up the rest of me to pour out
reasons why I miss the nuances of your smile
three hours a night when reception is good
and with full batteries
and a generous calling plan isn't sufficient
I want your voice to swallow me
30 hours a day
My
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Literature
the Mud turtle
______________________________
She will never apply herself
for long in chlorine,
I thought; nor fluoride,
I agreed with myself again
about the city water as
it strayed down
a swarm to stir,
then to weep --
dribbled down patiently,
the remaining drops,
as I twisted
the slick knob back
to dam the sterling tap
which ran little water:
     Alone, she hangs
     her head out now,
     makes length of her
     neck and nostrils and
     breathes but when I
     walk in to piss she
     swallows her head
     inside her shell,
     with a leech on it I
     never bothered to remove.
It reminds me of myself
the way she
has parasites,
the way she
vanishes --
all her head and mouth
so entirely gone.
______________________________
:iconsomedrunkblackspoon:somedrunkblackspoon
:iconsomedrunkblackspoon:somedrunkblackspoon 9 21
Literature
Headphones and Expansion
I am the soles of his shoes, I must like the feeling of my cheeks
against the gravel, he presses my jawline in
hard, I keep coming back in an attempt to pluck out
each pin shaped stone. There is not much inside apart from old cogs
and plastic tubes that twist around my spine,  
something burrows into my stomach and sits,
clattering as I breathe and I have to keep on hushing it up
as its fingers start to pull my ribs apart
so the world can eye my heart up, open like empty drawers,
so I can walk around with my pores unfastened
spilling out everywhere.
I did not mean to crawl so far into his jean pockets
because I knew it would be so hard to wash my skin
out of their fabric. He is like a two AM fire alarm, loud
and I must heave my body up and stumble down the stairs,
'it's too cold to stand outside with all these half-asleep students
at this time in a morning, will you let me back in?'
He makes it rain and my eyelashes do not make good window screen wipers
anymore.
There's a boo
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Activity


Thank you for all of the comments and favorites and adds. I'm sorry I haven't been more active lately. Life continues to take its toll.

And thank you, nycterent, for featuring my poem: fav.me/d2asp9f . I appreciate the all the attention.

I'll be heading back to India in a couple of days, a shorter trip this time. Drop me a line if you get a moment.

~Michael

deviantID

anarchypress
Michael O'Connell
United States
Interests

Comments


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:iconmrcaptaina:
MrCaptainA Featured By Owner Oct 30, 2018
Happy Birthday, Michael!
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:iconmrcaptaina:
MrCaptainA Featured By Owner Oct 30, 2017
Happy Birthday, Michael!
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:iconmrcaptaina:
MrCaptainA Featured By Owner Oct 30, 2016
Happy Belated Birthday, Michael!
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:iconmrcaptaina:
MrCaptainA Featured By Owner Oct 30, 2014
Happy Birthday, Michael!
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:iconpossumfan:
PossumFan Featured By Owner Oct 30, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Happy Birthday!
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