Tag: poet
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womb
By Eloise Faichney the little girl, quietly climbing the stairs in a large house, escaped from a neglectful au pair’s eyes step by delicate step, small feet trace the white carpet to the sanctuary, her goal – mother’s bedroom.
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Quiet.
By Oscar O’Neill-Pugh The rays shrink. The sun creeps back. Quiet. The night, it clings to us all. Its long digits holding still our ears, It’s icy breath caressing our skin. Whatever you do, Don’t resist. Whatever you do, Don’t interrupt it. Don’t light it up. Never startle it.
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To your arms
By Oscar O’Neill-Pugh I can’t bring myself to believe, In a particular God. It shakes me to my very core, To know that I won’t. How I wish I had the faith, To abide by fanatic dogma. How I wish I had the strength, To discover my truth.
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Rêves à partir de son lit de mort
By Oscar O’Neill-Pugh Turn off the machine, despite my fragility. Turn me off and allow me, grant me my sleep. I ask of you, why put off the inevitable? Let me write, despite my hand being illegible.
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Death by Linen
By Oscar O’Neill-Pugh Even now the pillow case Shoves its way, into my face. Through my undertow And overhead, I gasp for air In my bed. But even now And even there Sins of the flesh, They don’t repair. So say farewell, My lungs get hot! Love is blind. Desire is not. Image…
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Borderline
By Oscar O’Neill-Pugh By the time I reverted back, Back to the bastard of Babylon, For far too long had I been kept From Phineus’ feast. Claws clawing, Harpies, harridans and harlots harping, Just a real fuckin’ mess. My barmy tongue crying out, Screaming and moaning in dry agony “Let me creep back to mah…
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Ophelia of the Billabong
By Oscar O’Neill-Pugh Past adrift, the fruitful vine, Lost in reason, space and time. Mankind from eggs sprouting forth, From brood dear, burst I, Upon yet another swarth. But these were times for better ships, With song and wine, a feast of oysters Turned men mad for swaying hips. So keep them tight, try…
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Citizen Snips
By Oscar O’Neill-Pugh A poetry editor, Of two journals, Sits at his desk At 2am, Sunday night. He makes amends To submitted works, Even though lately He himself, cannot write. Image by MJ S.
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Yours truly, the weed
By Oscar O’Neill-Pugh False glory, Lies and deceit, I’m falling in love, With things that don’t exist. But just for this one time, To me, everything is real.