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Conor Oneill Poem
'Maria's Canto'
You bestir me, Aztec Princess
Awakening me from slumbers forsaken
Taking me on the path to your Caribbean haven
To my existence you grant sense.
Your mind is keen, shown by a sharp intelligence
On your countenance, your honey skin a godly sheen
In all you've been, as woman and goddess
Heaven and Earth will you rule as queen, but to me
To me you are the premiere enchantress.
Copyright © Conor Oneill | Year Posted 2014
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Conor Oneill Poem
'Music and Women'
Music is furniture
A subtle presence to detain silence's torture
The best piece being the understated overture.
Women begin to inflict me
Prick at me with clawing felinity
Hurting me, murdering me slowly.
My mind is unkempt
Desires and whims are thus left
Ne'er to be sated, adding to acute discontent.
Bereft and spiritually in debt
I'm trapped in penning many a tedious triplet
One after the other, minute by minute.
Their sole purposes to decorate time
Embellish space, fill a line
But nothing more, nothing else to consign.
Ringing in unison to a bell's chime.
Copyright © Conor Oneill | Year Posted 2014
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Conor Oneill Poem
'Pinup Girls'
A pinup girl is a kind of cartoon character
With a disproportionate mind and figure.
She has this facial expression, the same one constantly,
As if to say wow, a birthday cake, just for me?
She lives in a fantasy world
In which everyone's soul has been sold
Living lives of raucous absurdity
Macho men ogle at the pinup girls in the city.
A pinup girl, upon noticing she's being noticed,
Will keep on walking but will look back with mock embarrassment.
If she carries one, she'll twirl her umbrella
Blinking long black lashes till someone shouts hey, ragazza bella!
Her walk is a sight to behold, a sight quite comic at least,
Waddling, high heeled, well tapered legs clumsily a-jut from a wasp thin waist.
A streetwalker, but not a whore, as innocent as a virgin but not an angel,
She's a pinup girl.
Copyright © Conor Oneill | Year Posted 2014
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Conor Oneill Poem
'The Pianist and the Senorita'
Of tobacco and perfume was her scent,
She of beauty without relent,
She of soul full-blooded,
In body and spirit,
My immortal beloved.
For her I compose
Sonatas and nocturnos,
In the hope my strings and hers will entwine,
So that my heart I may consign
To her, the Spanish seductress, comely by design.
Copyright © Conor Oneill | Year Posted 2014
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Conor Oneill Poem
'Pain and Pleasure'
At the sound of Bach
My ears do bleed
On account of its beauty.
These reactions do I have
Pain due to pleasure
Art's tremulous toll.
If only the world
Outside of art could be as wondrous
As full of mounting passion and awe.
But so many are stiff and square
They claim to be truth seekers
And pursue perfection with imperfect means.
The artist can revel in imperfection
Thrive in chaos, strive in distress
Assuaging audiences the world over
With the exhibition of uselessness and expressivity.
Copyright © Conor Oneill | Year Posted 2014
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