An international online magazine that publishes Surrealist poetry in English.
MICHAEL CONSTANTINE McCONNELL
On smoke you leapt, a whistling between
us split space. A fleck of shadow weasled
through scars where clown eyes rolled out
of Heaven and burrowed into the Earth
for light. In an alternate Universe,
Icarus, betrayed by wax gills, lay
stiff on a Greek ocean. Gnarled angel
fingers snatched seamless G chords from the air,
plucking blood from my hands. A desert dreamed
vines panting under the weight of a hundred
purple wombs. Countless hearts silenced.
Accordians forgot how to breathe. When
I snapped my fingers, you vanished. Hair
grew out of my mouth and tickled the chin
of a child-like Satan, who clacked
together its dusty hooves and laughed.
Earth and fire fell apart, fell
in love again, praised the sky, lost
the will to suffer. Fire, tattood
in prayer, covered the Earth
in articulate kisses, quaked
her daydreams into climax.
They named their twins Elision
and Solliloquoy, baptized
them in the river, scalded
their small tongues to speak
no evil, only grow sunflowers
from their eyes, taught them
the vulnerability necessary
for flight, and vanished, leaving
no shoes to fill, only two sets
of dusty footprints walking away.
And wood nymphs to breed with,
paint brushes for when they grow
bored, starlight to remind them how
love will prevail if they let it,
especially when it doesn't seem so.
Michael Constantine McConnell is originally from Detroit, and currently is a resident of San Marcos, Texas, where he is pursuing a doctoral degree in Developmental Education at Texas State University. His most recent poems have appeared in the New Plains Review, the Lindenwood Review, and THAT Literary Review. One of his essays was nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2011.